


Breaking the Girl Code

by downpoure



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Chapter 372 Spoilers in the future, Coming of Age, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Oikawa Tooru's Knee Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Teenage Drama, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24660028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downpoure/pseuds/downpoure
Summary: The girl code is the unspoken and unwritten laws of teenage friendships. Summarized into one sentence: You do not — under any circumstances — talk to your friend’s ex. Breaking this code would be the bane of your existence and the existence of all those involved; willingly or not.And to simply put it, you broke the girl code.(Or Oikawa Tooru simply needed a new distraction; and you were the perfect one for the role. But not in the way he thinks.)
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru & Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 70
Kudos: 166





	1. A Good Bestfriend and a Good Samaritan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To say things didn’t go as planned or rather envisioned was the understatement of the summer; and it had hardly began.

“Tooru broke up with me.” 

You froze. Whatever greeting you had preconceived prior to picking up the call, dying on the tips of your tongue. 

Images of the aforementioned brunet flooded your head not a second after. Shooting up from your bed, you managed to croak out. “Wh-What?” 

With eyelids partly opened, you squinted at the bright screen — straining your eyes in the process — as if to confirm the identity of the caller, despite knowing well that there could only be one possible person. 

The moment of silence from the other line made your skin grow weary, your concern for the other growing by the seconds that past. You took this time to compose yourself from the lethargy of sleep; lazy hands made its’ way to the bedside table where you pulled the string that turned on the lamp and grabbed the prescription glasses that sat weirdly at the bridge of your nose. Your fingers ran it’s course through your tangled locks, tucking the front pieces behind your ears.

In all of the countless reasons why  Takaeda Kirari would call you in the middle of the night, _this_ is by far the least expected one and by a long shot. 

From the top of your head, you could easily list the countless times your best friend had woken you up in the most ungodly hour of the night due to silly reasons that could’ve easily waited the morning after — or even better, communicated through text. But unlike the times where she called to discuss a new Netflix show she recently binged or freak out about a certain Kpop group’s comeback, Kirari had come bearing with something that seems _neither_ of you saw coming.

“That asshole…” Kirari trailed off. “I got dumped by that asshole today.” A pained chuckle followed not long after. The bitterness of her confession was painfully audible that it was too hard to miss even for your half-awake self. Your mouth itched to respond with something — anything really. The tiny ounce of self-control you had left for the night held you back; concluding that, a listening ear is far better than whatever your tactless mouth had to offer at the moment.

Unprompted, Kirari began to recount the events of her break up with Oikawa Tooru going back as far as two months ago where she claimed to begin noticing signs of cold feet. She spoke in a hushed tone, as if ashamed of the events that unfolded. Under any other circumstance, you would’ve picked up on how this was too uncharacteristic of her but you let it slide past you for now.

Instead, you focused on how composed Kirari had sounded for someone who was just dumped — embarrassed, maybe, but nonetheless calm.  _Too calm_. You expected anger; hysterical screams, frustrated rants, ugly sobs even. 

To some, this may appear normal —  _healthy_. But you knew your best friend better than that. It perturbed you but only for a brief moment before the voice on the other line cracked, reeling your attention back to the call.

“H-he.. he said he needed to focus on volleyball...” A half-hearted scoff was heard. “Like, does that even make sense?” She asked, subdued, the question seemingly directed more to herself than to you.

Images of the volleyball player flashed in your head once again — tousled chestnut hair clad in teal and white. You refrain from commenting on how fake and shallow his given excuse was. Fortunately for you, the flow of the conversation steered back to the happenings of their break up and the opening for you to formulate a reply closed before you could run your mouth. 

Occasionally, you would hum in response where you deemed necessary; you even let out an involuntary  _I’m sorry_ after hearing your friend’s narration of her misconception about today’s break-up to be a surprise date from her boyfriend. But for the most part, her words left as quickly as they entered your ears; although you _don’t_ miss at all how she all did but express disdain for her ex. 

Kirari went on for what you estimate to be an hour before the stiffness of your current position finally got to you. The haziness brought upon by the abruptness of your wake combined with the ridiculously slow-paced narration was certainly not a good combination. 

In an attempt to stay awake for the long night ahead of you, you place the call on speaker mode and tossed the device aside. Tired, you let out a yawn before launching your body off the bed; where you proceeded to stretch out the kinks of your body followed by a few jumps at the end, feeling as though your spirits have entered your body once again at the sudden movement.

“— brought me to that cafe in downtown. I really wasn’t expecting it you know? He rarely initiated any of our dates and I thought, I thought maybe he was trying to change and...” 

Satisfied by your body’s recent rejuvenation, your gaze landed on the window — curtains drawn out, allowing the moonlight to creep in. Mindlessly, you approached the aperture that opened the view to the subdivision outside. The streets were empty and quiet considering it was almost two a.m. in the morning. The only lights that illuminated the street were the standard lamp posts that casted a yellow tint on the ground. The whole neighbourhood seemed to be fast asleep as the summer night gradually passed by.

_ All except one.  _

If it weren’t for the numerous times you had entered the Oikawa residence — two houses down across the street from your own — you wouldn’t have paid a second thought about why the lights on the second-floor bedroom were on. You adjust your glasses to reconfirm what you’re seeing; your mouth twitches in amusement at the sight of Oikawa Tooru playing volleyball in his room.

From your limited line of sight, the man of the hour could be seen alternating from tossing and bumping a tricoloured volleyball, seemingly engulfed in his own world and playing one-man volleyball. 

Confused and somewhat baffled, you ask yourself if this is normal behaviour for someone who just dumped their girlfriend.

Kirari’s boyfriend (read: ex-boyfriend) lived no farther than a two-minute walk from you. Although, it would be an understatement to say that you were simply neighbours. Your families’ close ties left you no choice but to be  friendly  with one another. Friendly, not friends; you two were family friends at best.

In addition to passing each other at school, your interactions were heightened through what could be described as mandatory dinners your households held monthly. Sometimes, you can’t help but be irritated at the decade long tradition that takes time from your precious weekends. 

For the first time that night, Kirari directed a question to you, unfortunately, unheard by whom she warranted a response. “Did you ever think... did you ever think our relationship would end so soon?”

Looking back at it, your relationship — if it was considered that — with Oikawa Tooru was probably what led to the series of mishaps that resulted in him dating your best friend. He was tall, good looking, athletic, sociable, and fairly smart. It was obvious why Kirari went as far as bribing you with a month of free boba just so you would allow her to come over for one of the token days your monthly dinners were held in your house. All in the hopes of forging a scenario that would lead the boy into thinking their meeting was pure coincidence and not masterminded by the cunning redhead. 

At the time, you didn’t think much of it. Actually, you thought her efforts were in vain because there was just no way one awkward family dinner can kickstart a relationship between two strangers. But you were proven wrong when the two went on a date a week after and began dating the month after that.

“Hey, [Name]?”

Not that you particularly minded and objected to their relationship; the couple was quite the spectacle that is. Put two overbearing personalities in a relationship and you get exactly  them . It was a surprise to you how they lasted six months together.

With an annoyed “Are you even listening?”, you broke away from the trance and returned to the unattended phone that on top of your mattress, quickly deducing that the redhead must’ve asked you a question. In rushed motions, you drew your curtains back in, dimming the lights in the room in the process and sunk back to your bed.

“M’sorry, I fell asleep for a sec.” You slurred conjuring a white lie on the spot. “What’d you say?” You ditched speaker mode, pressing the phone closer to your ear.

Kirari paused as if to hold back but with a dejected sigh she eventually supplied, “I was asking if you thought Tooru and I were gonna last?” 

Your breath hitched at the premise of the unsolicited question. Kirari rarely talked about her relationship with you and to be quite frank, you preferred it that way. Sure, there were times where you had given your opinions regarding menial things such as what shade of lip tint the other should wear on their date or what gift might the boy like for White day, but nothing too important a topic as the prospect of their break up.

Truth be told, you never thought any high school relationships would last once the couple passes the age of pre-adolescence. Of course, there are couples who are the exception; you think of Oikawa Taishiro and Emiko and how the two were high school sweethearts. Oikawa and Kirari simply _weren’t_ like his parents.

However, that did not mean you weren’t bothered to think that way. You were aware that to some extent you were breaking an unspoken rule about friendship when you perceive Kirari’s relationship as something so short-lived. Even though you knew your opinions held no malice against the couple, it simply did not sit right with you to voice your harsh thinking that would just do harm more than anything else,  even if it was sought for. 

So you deflect. 

“What I think about your relationship is irrelevant.” Feigning nonchalance like it's your second nature, you finally quipped as you rested your nape on the back of your left wrist to prop your head. “Besides, does it really matter when it’s over?” You added playfully, taunting her in hopes that she’ll drop the subject.

With a momentary pause, Kirari sharp tongue retorted. “Ugh, you’re such a bitch.” 

_ Ah. There she was.  _

Laughs filled both ends of the line in an instant; the duo basked in the light-hearted turn of the conversation, they both needed. 

Your chest felt lighter after finally hearing your best friend for the first time that night — potty-mouthed, obnoxiously loud and definitely not the soft-spoken girl that was talking earlier.

“It’s not like  you  had a relationship before. So I don’t know why I’m even asking you.” Kirari queried, giving you no chance to reply before adding, “And no, your middle school puppy relationship with Hanamaki Takahiro does not count. I’m pretty sure the guy used you as a beard.”

You gasped dramatically, emphasizing on how you took offence to her remarks. “First of all, you’re the one who called me at two a.m. If I had known you would disrespect me like this, I wouldn’t have picked up and left you crying alone in your room. Second of all, I am aware that my two-week relationship with Hiro was barely a relationship. And yes, I am now well aware that the guy was batting for the same team as us! You don’t have to remind me, bitch.” You were almost breathless by the end of your rant.

A pregnant pause. Then, a string of giggles followed. The rest of the conversation carried on in the same note. The awkward tension in the air that unknowingly surrounded the two for the first hour went away. You let the familiarity drape over you like a security blanket. Indeed, having a conversation about your best friend’s ex with the said best friend is very much more bearable when the bad-mouthing came from both ways. 

Just as you anticipated, the call lasted until the crack of dawn fell upon Miyagi. Similar to your previous late-night calls, Kirari fell asleep first. You took the radio silence from the other line and the light rumbling of snores, cue to end the call. 

As the sunlight began to peek through your curtains, you wrapped yourself in a bundle of sheets and buried your heavy head on the soft cushion of your pillows. Your eyelids fell at the state of tranquillity that lulled you into a much-needed sleep due to the unforeseen all-nighter you had accidentally pulled. 

Unwittingly though, your thoughts drifted to Kirari and particularly to the earlier parts of your conversation. Hearing Kirari’s too stable to be real convictions that although was not devoid of sadness, was still too artificial for you to look past and ignore.

You had already grown accustomed to Kirari’s way of presenting herself as though she was an open book when in reality she only reveals exactly what she wants you to know; and most of the time, that was close to nothing. Nothing meaningful at that. She shared the little things but never the ones that people wanted to know. And it still pisses you off how she does it so well and with such ease at that without anyone noticing at all. But that what makes Takaeda Kirari interesting.

A whisper of doubt weasels its way in your head, planting a seed that makes you second guess your assumptions.  Maybe you were just looking far too much into it. 

But you immediately recoil. If you had anything to take away from the five years you had known her, is that the redhead may be good at hiding her feelings but you were better at uncovering them.

Hastily, you make a mental note to check in with her again. Probably not tomorrow or the day after that, if you were to be true. But soon. 

* * *

Soon dawned upon you much quicker than anyone would have wanted. To say things didn’t go as planned or  rather  envisioned was the understatement of the summer and it had hardly begun. You were certain that after giving Kirari enough time and space, that the mega bolted door that led to her sincere feelings would be much easier to break into. Turns out, giving the redhead enough alcohol would have the same effect. 

As you tuck away in one of the secluded corners of the massive residence, you could only stare in bewilderment as you keep a tight watch on the complete and utter mess that took form in Takaeda Kirari. 

Her signature waist-length ruby locks that you had just seen a week ago was now cut short to up her jaw, framing her now sweaty face that donned her smoky eye shadow. The inescapable drunken glow only intensified on the apples of her cheeks as a famous American pop song plays on the speakers that were way too loud for your ear’s liking. 

Your lips willingly met the cusp of your cup and chugged the remains of the pink liquid — you settled for the punch knowing it was the most diluted of all the drinks available. 

Still keeping an eye on the same girl in the middle of the living room, you gawk as she now dances with three other people — completely intoxicated to even match the rhythm of the upbeat EDM tune. Not that anyone else in the room noticed nor cared except for you; they were just as buzzed as Kirari was and too indulged in their own worlds as they enjoy the summer break in their own respective cliques, doing whatever teenagers normally did at parties involving absent guardians and underaged drinking in what seems to be a mansion. 

You can only huff in displeasure at your current predicament after swiping the remnants of alcohol  on your lips with the back of your hand. 

The rich private school kids sure do know how to throw a party. When Kirari texted you this afternoon about a ‘small get-together’ one of her Shiratorizawa girlfriends was apparently hosting tonight, you definitely did not imagine _this_. 

Your vision of a small get together fell along the lines of low budget horror movies and eating take-out sprawled out across someone’s living room; if you were lucky, there might just be the standard convenience store beer. But all was shattered when you arrived at the gated subdivision and heard Drake playing all the way from the driveway. 

You mentally scolded yourself for not predicting this; the vagueness of Kirari’s texts should have made you skeptical from the get-go. And if you had to pick from one of the gossips to believe revolving the elite school, it should’ve been that, when they throw a party, it’s either all out or nothing.

If you were just a little bit more vigilant, you wouldn’t have been at a random stranger’s house, completely underdressed and playing designated sober friend. This was later modified into a designated tipsy friend when you realized you couldn’t possibly endure a single second longer in this house party, sober, even for Kirari.

All in the good faith of being a good best friend.

Sighing, you scattered your eyes around the huge living room, diverting your attention from watching Kirari make a complete fool of herself and the growing second hand embarrassment you’re feeling in your stomach. The sleek and modern aesthetic of the home was indeed worth ogling. Of course, you had to squint extra hard to see its beauty when it was being out-shadowed by the harsh multicoloured lighting from the LED lights that hang from the tall ceilings — of course, they were tall. 

In the process, you recognize a few people, mostly from Shiratorizawa, some from different schools; but none of them you’ve actually seen outside the perimeters of your phone screen. 

Growing sick of the luxuriously lavish interior, you unconsciously brought your attention back to where it has been glued to since your arrival. 

_ Shit_ . 

Kirari was no longer where she was a second ago. In fact, she was nowhere to be found in your field of vision. 

_Calm down_.

You tried to place yourself in her shoes. What would you do if you’re a drunk seventeen-year-old girl who may or may not be in denial or suppressing her own feelings after being dumped a week ago?

_Well, fuck_. 

Gnawing the insides of your mouth, you finished off the remainders of your cup before tossing the used cup to the trash can beside you. You take large strides in the direction of the kitchen in search of your best friend.

The kitchen was less crowded yet there was no fiery red hair in sight. You’re unsure whether the cloudiness of your vision was caused by your irritated contact lenses or the fifth cup of vodka punch you just drank, though knowing your surprisingly high tolerance for alcohol, it was most likely the contacts. 

Wasting no more time, you almost got whiplash from the speed your head turned when you caught sight of red locks from you peripheral; the crown of her head just barely peeking from behind the suede couch on one of the tea rooms — yes,  rooms.

Bouncing off the from the heels of your feet, you took your time to approach the girl; simultaneously planning the scolding you had in store for her. The funny smell, you weren’t innocent nor naive not to recognize registered to your brain immediately as you neared.

_ Yeah, she is definitely not gonna hear the end of it. _

“Where the fuck have you been?” You reprimanded, the profanity rolling off your tongue with grit from behind as you circled around the couch. But instead of meeting the defiant glares you had expected from Kirari, you were met by someone, _not_ Kirari at all. 

You didn’t mistake the red hair. It’s just that, that was all she had in common with the guy that is currently in the middle of staring you from head to toe. The way his eyeballs are almost bulging out of his sockets is honestly giving you the creeps, not to mention the blunt in between his fingers was not doing him any favours. 

“I’m so—“

Your disingenuous apology is cut short, “I’ve been sitting here since I got in five minutes ago.” The stranger takes a quick huff and puff. You can only scrunch your brows at the act and before you knew it, the smoke already hit you face on.

“Also, who the fuck are you?” The profanity slipped off his tongue in the same defiance as you'd expect from Kirari.

Swatting the air as your eyes send daggers towards the stoner, you answer begrudgingly. 

“[Surname].” 

You eye him incredulously. “I’m a friend of Takaeda Kirari’s. I thought you were her. The red hair and all so....” You trailed off before quickly adding, “I’m so—”

“The name’s Tendou.” He supplies in a drawl, his piercing ruby eyes meeting yours.

“O-Okay? Sorry for cussing you out Tendou.” You place a hand on your hip, narrowing your eye at the lanky stoner. “Well then Tendou... since I’m already here, have you perhaps seen Takaeda anywhere? She’s about this tall, lo-  short red hair, black dress, downright wasted...”

Tendou mulls it over, taking yet another swing at the blunt; you wait for a response reluctantly. His eyes venturing up the ceiling as if your question needed processing and could not be taken at face value. 

By the looks of his bloodshot eyes and winded expression, you were ready to take that as a no. You couldn’t really get mad, he was high and asking him a question that would require more than a yes or no answer was pushing it.

“Actually, it’s fine. Can you just point me where the washroom is, I’ll check there—“

“Ah!” He exclaims shooting up from his seat.

You almost,  _almost_ , snapped at him for cutting you off again. But your annoyance evacuated momentarily when Tendou gives you a look of recognition. He presses his lips against the butt of the blunt, blowing a cloud of smoke on your face; although this time, you couldn’t care less. “You mean, Kirari-chan?”

“Y-Yes. Kirari-chan...” You forgo his use of informal address when referring to your best friend and instead awaited his promising response.

He points a thumb behind him. “I think I passed her in the veranda when I got here earlier.”

In good-natured disbelief, you flashed him a genuine smile. Well, this interaction wasn’t _completely_ useless, you thought. With no further ado, you send Tendou a knowing nod — a sign of gratitude, he offers you a lopsided grin — before passing him and veering off in the way of his vague directions.

Resuming your search, you finally reached the open veranda but not without the effort of having to practically squeeze your way through the clusters of people blocking the exit. The music coming from the backyard speakers sounded clearer and less muffled as you stepped out. In fact, it was the only noise you heard asides from the familiar yells and shouts you’ve heard way too many times not to recognize.

It didn’t take long for you to find Kirari; the cranked necks of the nosy bystanders were a dead give away. Following their intrigued gazes, you finally landed on the figure of your best friend who was across from you; the massive pool separating the two of you. But she wasn’t alone, arguing with her in equal volumes of anger was Oikawa Tooru. 

_ What the fuck was he doing here? But more importantly, why the hell are they making a scene in front of literally everyone?  _

Their voices were raucous but with the lengthy distance created by the large vicinity of this mansion and the blaring music that still played in the background, you couldn’t decipher their words. But just by the looks of it, it’s nothing pretty. 

This is when you give yourself three options:

_ One_ . You could remain just as you are right now; standing from afar and waiting until the conflict resolves itself. That is if the two were even attempting to resolve it. 

_Two_. You could simply just run and pretend this night didn’t happen at all. Your curfew was just around the corner and you would have to go home anyway.

 _ Three_ . Or you could intervene and potentially prevent a fight from breaking up. But how exactly would you do that? It’s not like talking it out was a promising option; their body language tells you that they are far too gone for a civil conversation.

_ The latter it was! _

Hesitantly, your legs began speed walking around the pool on route to reaching the deeper ends near where the two stood. Muttering a few obscenities under your breath, you began to practice the clumsily composed lines you conjured at the top of your head. The wide parameters of the backyard came to your rescue, giving you extra time to prepare.

You kept your eyes low to your sneakers; tiptoeing around the people who were still gawking the ex-couple like they were watching a Netflix Originals. 

Peering up from the ground, you were now in arm's length away from the two; just right behind Kirari. Oikawa was about to reach out to your best friend, only for her to shriek a, “Get the fuck away from me! Don’t you dare touch me!”

His eyes widened only for a second before retracting his hand. Then he attempted to appease her, “Please, Kirari, let’s not make a scene here. Please.”

“Huh? _Me_? I’m the one making a scene?” Kirari jabs a finger aggressively to her chest. “Fuck you, Tooru. Don’t think for one second that you can patronize me. I’ll show you what a real scene is.” All the scenes from the Western chick-flics you’ve watched, reminiscent of this line of taunt flashed before your eyes. You don’t like where this is heading at all. 

Feet stoned to the ground, you watch the scene unfold: Kirari begins with a fighting stance. Her form was sloppy; years of karate demeaned by the alcohol that made every muscle in her body numb. His back now facing the pool, Oikawa almost scoffs at the sight of his ex-girlfriend. 

The redhead cocks her head to the side and smirks before charging towards the brunet. You wince.  _She’s gonna hit him. Oh god. She’s really gonna hit him_.

In a blink of an eye, you hear a swift thump then a guttural grunt followed by the jarring splash of water. The crowd collectively gasped, you included. Your eyes widened at the scene that just unfolded before you. 

_ She kicked him. _

The ex-couple who stood in front of you just mere seconds ago was no longer there. Instead, the said boy was submerged in the pool a foot away while the said girl, was at the edge of the pool, peering down at her ex-lover.

Sloshing the surface of the water with one hand, Kirari crouched to level with the brunette who just emerged from the pool. “How do you like _this_ scene, asshole.” She spat, he words dripping in disdain and mockery for the other.

Leaving no room for a response, she storms off the veranda in a way only Takaeda Kirari can; following her exit was the wild hoots and howls of the teenage bystanders. You roll your eyes at their raised phones which pointed towards your general direction. More specifically, directed towards Oikawa who was hanging quite pitifully at the edge of the pool.

You didn’t think twice before rushing towards the brunet. Extending your hand to his face, he followed your limb up until you made eye-contact; though it didn’t last long before he returned his gaze on your hand.

You frown at this. Wagging your hand in hurried movements, you emphasized on your intent. “Are you gonna take my help or not?” Your question came out sounding more annoyed than you intended it to be but it must be done.

Staring directly in his eyes, you communicated the same resolve. The sweet and tangy taste of the juice mix was dancing on your tongue while the sharp mix of vodka was burning your throat. You know damn well he would have been fine without your help, but you just  _ had  _ to play the Good Samaritan today.

You begin to think maybe you shouldn’t have.

Eventually, he accepts your hand; his right hand grabbing yours and the other pulling himself up. The sudden pull forces you to use both your hands for the task.

Once on the ground, Oikawa was dripping in pool water, the close proximity of the chlorine stench making your nose curl in the slightest. You wipe your hand dry on the sides of your jeans as you watch him wring the hem of his shirt. He goes on to squeeze out the water from his hair next; his hand combing over his hair which revealed his forehead. He moves on to his face and you don’t miss how he winces as his fingers barely graze his right cheek.

The sudden amplification of the speakers snapped your attention back to your surroundings; with no warning, the bass line penetrated the walls of your eardrums. The crowd that once encircled your location had long dispersed and the party resumed as if the past five minutes did not just happen.

Realizing that your presence was no longer needed by Oikawa or rather your presence was needed elsewhere by a certain Kirari, you utter a lukewarm, “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

The brunet halts at the sound of your voice; his mouth parting ever so slightly as if to reply, but nothing comes out. You spared no second more waiting for a response before walking past him and marching towards the direction the redhead ran off to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The legal drinking age in Japan is twenty years old so even though most of them would be eighteen it’s still considered underaged drinking.
> 
> Hello everyone:)) This is my first time posting a fanfic online *screams* I initially started writing this prompt way back in March and I recently just picked up on it again. 
> 
> With that said, I’d really like to hear you guys’ thoughts and I’m very much open to feedback. (Please be nice tho I’m a lil sensitive lmao) A kudos would also be appreciated. But anyway that’s it for now, I have so many ideas with this fic and I hope you guys would like it. This goes out to my mans Oikawa Tooru, I hope I do you justice with this one.


	2. The Elephant in the Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For there were two, big fat elephants suffocating both of you in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all that left kudos and comments on the last chapter.  
> Y’all are the best.  
> But without further ado, enjoy this Oikawa-centric chapter.

One glance at his unexpected visitor and Iwaizumi Hajime slams the front door shut as quickly as he opened it. To his demise, however, the said visitor managed to slip in a stubborn foot, jamming the way of the door. With an exasperated sigh, he pulls the knob towards himself slightly; just enough to reveal a scrunched face, bearing a sour expression and glaring eyes behind the wooden panels.

Returning the same glower, Iwaizumi monotonously demands, “Go home, Oikawa.”

“Iwa-ch—“ A whine was trapped in Oikawa’s throat when the wooden panels inched towards his face once again; this time with more force. He could feel his right foot throb after its’ second contact with the door; though it did not compare to the pain in his left cheek. “Fine! Please, Iwaizumi-san. I need your help.”

Again, Iwaizumi sighs. “Bastard, it’s eight a.m. on a Saturday...” He opens the door fully, revealing Oikawa in his second skin: workout clothes. “What could I possibly be helping you out with?” He trails off, his voice dangerously low.

Oikawa swallows thickly, his mind blaring alarm bells that warned him of the thin ice he was currently treading. But nonetheless, he proceeds with reckless abandon. “Hit my tosses?”

With this, the two commenced a silent game of staring. Oikawa tilts his head down — levelling his gaze with the shorter male — goading him in the process of doing so. Although perplexed, Iwaizumi holds his head high. To this, the brunet can only stifle a snicker; lips quivering slightly as he keeps his serious demeanour.

From the corner of the shorter male’s eye, he takes notice of a dry and discoloured patch of skin on the other’s cheekbone. His brows knit in confusion as he inspects the dark blue and purple traces on the area that he could’ve easily missed if not for the amateur makeup job that failed to conceal it.

Iwaizumi looks away first, making way for the brunet to enter. “Give me fifteen minutes to get ready.”

Oikawa wins the first round.

* * *

His unwavering productivity was only one of the handfuls of things Oikawa took genuine pride in. Because one, it wasn’t in the same shallow category as his good looks which he often gets praised for.

The days and night where he took the extra mile with his school work and volleyball practices wasn’t just something he was born with. He had worked hard for it. From a very young age, he battled his own damn mind and body every single day until productivity became something second nature to him.

A step towards polishing his instinct.

And two, his drive to constantly do something was an easy distraction — obviously, volleyball became his go-to choice. Oikawa learned from years of experience that keeping his hands and feet busy all the time, kept his mind from things he would rather not spend not waste his time on. Today, that thing referred to the shit show of a night he had prior.

Asking Iwaizumi to accompany him was a spur of the moment decision; his plans would’ve still carried on with or without the wing spiker. Oikawa knows that his best friend — although far from lazy — would be found dead in a ditch first before being up at eight a.m. in the morning during summer break.

Which makes it all the more surprising when he agrees after just one plead. Iwaizumi never _just_ agrees to him.

Positioning the ball in front of him carefully, the setter focuses on nothing but the tingling sensation that sat on the pads of his fingers. The weight of the tricoloured volleyball sat heavily on his outstretched palm and it felt good — familiar.

It’s only been a day and a half since he last practiced his serves. For a split second, he laments at the thought of maybe if he had only spent yesterday practicing his serves instead of agreeing to go to that stupid party he had no intentions of even going to in the first place then maybe— No.

He’s not gonna do that right now. He won’t, otherwise what was the point? It would just defeat the whole purpose of doing this. He needs to be distracted.

With a deep exhale, the brunet tosses the ball high and mighty before he sprints towards it and launches off his feet which sent the ball flying to the other side of the court. It lands precisely on the left side of the backline, producing a satisfying slam that was music to his ears.

_Again._

Iwaizumi can only silently study the setter from the sidelines, still exhausted from the unnecessarily taxing three-hour feat they just finished. They spent the first hour consisted of warm-ups, then the next hour was spent rallying like their lives depended on it. The two just ended practicing — _perfecting_ , per Oikawa’s demands — their new quick attack. If not for his body reaching its limits, the setter could probably last another hour sending perfect tosses his way.

Unfortunately, he clocked out the moment the sun reached its highest point; just before the scorching August heat peaked. He thinks the setter should too, but of course, he doesn’t.

The wing spiker has been watching the setter practice his serves for quite a while now. _Forty-three minutes to be exact_. Well, Iwaizumi had been watching Oikawa since he could remember.

Iwaizumi was watching when the brunet first held a volleyball and attempted to take the malfunctioning ball for a test run. Iwaizumi was also watching when he learned how to underhand serve for the very first time. Iwaizumi kept on watching Oikawa until he had his first service ace during a tournament in junior high.

The wing spiker had been watching the setter practice— _perfect_ , his serves even before he was a wing spiker and the latter, a setter.

_And he is still watching._

His eyes don’t leave Oikawa’s form as he yet again performs a powerful jump serve. Although, something was different. In fact, the serves he has been doing today had been slightly different from the ones Iwaizumi had last seen a week ago during practice.

_The bastard got better._

To the untrained eye and to anyone who hadn’t spent a good chunk of their lives watching the brunet, it would’ve easily gone unnoticed. The changes weren’t drastic; his posture was straighter, his arm angled slightly higher, his stance wider, his jump a little higher, but the pay off was a dead give away. The trajectory of the ball was clean and precise. Where it hits — just on the left-hand side of the backline — was spot on.

_How the hell did he improve within a span of a week?_

Has he been practi— That’s dumb. Of course, he has been practicing. But why? Oikawa Tooru was an A-class overworked overachiever if Iwaizumi had ever seen one. But never has he seen the brunet improve so substantially... and within such a short period of time at that. Why the sudden motivation?

Whatever it was, he _had_ to know.

Jogging towards the other side of the court, the wing spiker picks up the fallen tricoloured ball. He then proceeds to trudge towards the net just before the brunet was about to cross yet instead of handing the ball to him, Iwaizumi tucks it under his arm.

Puzzled at the sudden gesture, Oikawa attempts to queries promptly when he gets cut off, “I think that’s enough for today...”

A knowing look. “Don’t you?”

Reminiscent of this morning’s showdown, the two yet again battles it out in silence stares. This time, Iwaizumi holds the upper hand and both of them know it. Oikawa is painfully aware of the other’s scrutinizing gaze, aware of the bark and bite in his words that were not there earlier.

The setter’s gaze softens first before letting an airy laugh escape his lips. “Of course, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa raises the net and ducks under the net to crosses the centerline before slumping his arms around the spiky-heard male. “I’m so tired.”

Iwaizumi blinks at the sudden weight on his shoulders. “Idiot. You just went five hours of practicing. Non-stop. Of course, you’re tired. ”The brunet light-heartedly pouts at the reprimand but nonetheless carry on.

They made their way to the benches where their belongings sat. Oikawa chugs at his water bottle before proposing, “What do you want to eat?” With no pause, “Ooh! I want milk bread from the convenience store near your house. They always make it fresh."

Surely enough, whatever Oikawa wants, Oikawa gets; but not without any resistance from the other. The two bickered for a solid five minutes before Iwaizumi finally conceded to his stubborn best friend.

The setter-wing spiker duo, ate in comfortable silence as they wolf down the assortment of convenience store snacks that they could purchase for 2000¥; although, two onigiri balls, two loaves of milk bread, a pack of BBQ flavoured chips, and two bottles of Gatorade for the aspiring athletes could hardly count as enough.

Iwaizumi breaks the silence first. “Mind telling me what’s up with that bruise?”

Oikawa chokes at the premise of the question, his free hand not clutching the milk bread immediately raising to cover his left cheek.

He curses under his breath. “You can tell?”

“Well for starters, you just confirmed it.” Iwaizumi caps off his drink and leisurely takes a few gulps. “Second, you have shitty makeup skills” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “And third, you sweat like a pig, dude.”

The embarrassment in Oikawa’s eyes was clear as the blue sky outside; his already flushed cheeks from physical exertion darkening after being called out so blatantly. “Damnit.” His hand drops to the side. There’s no point in hiding it now.

The wing spiker snickers at the sight, “Tell me that’s _not_ your mom’s concealer.”

The brunet finishes the last bite of bread and tosses the crumpled plastic wrapper on the table. “Close. It’s my sister’s... found it stashed away in her room. Must’ve been there for at least three years already.”

“Dude... that’s fucking disgusting.”

Oikawa just shrugs before pulling out his phone to check his reflection. Indeed, Iwaizumi wasn’t lying; his bruise was now completely visible with some leftover dried makeup crust clinging to his sweaty skin. He uses his fingers to clean it up. “Yeah, tell me about it.” He replies sarcastically. 

The spiky-haired male simply responds with a full chuckle. “Are you at least gonna tell me who gave it to you; so I can thank the brave soldier?”

The brunet pulls down his phone at this. “I thought you knew?” When he was returned with a blank and clueless look, he couldn’t help but be enthused. “Iwa-chan. When was the last time you checked Instagram? Or any social media at that?” He asks mockingly, although the other doesn’t seem to call him out on it.

“Uhm.” Iwaizumi doesn’t know the relevance of his question but he answers truthfully, nevertheless. “Before I went to bed...around ten last night, why?”

Sparing him a judging look, Oikawa doesn’t waste time before chastising the other. “Seriously, Iwaizumi Hajime-san? Are you a grandpa? Who sleeps that early?” He controls himself before going off-topic. “You know what, that’s a discussion for a different day.”

Disappointed but not really surprised, he sighs at his best friend’s questionable sleeping schedule. “Here.” He hands Iwaizumi his unlocked phone. “Just go to my recent tags. You’ll see.” Iwaizumi reluctantly follows the brunet’s instructions.

_And he did see._

By the seventh time he replays the video — his laughs only growing more manic each time, Oikawa finally snatches the phone from his hold. There was no resistance from Iwaizumi, maybe that’s because his best friend was too preoccupied savouring the video evidence of his ego taking a beating.

“Stop.” He doesn’t. Oikawa cringes in embarrassment and regret.

One hand wiping his tears of joy and the other banging on the table, Iwaizumi rides off his laughing fit until a part-time worker politely asks him to stop. He bows to the poor teenager, his words of apologies barely understandable under his hiccups.

“I’m sorry but...” The setter thinks he finally starts to calm down. “But what the hell was that?” Before he starts giggling again like a schoolgirl.

Oikawa groans at his self-inflicted predicament.

“That was Takaeda wasn’t it? I know you just broke up with her but you must’ve fucked it up somehow, huh?”

His depleted groan spoke for itself.

“You should’ve vetted her first. Then, maybe you could’ve avoided dating someone who has a black belt in judo.”

His hands made its way to his temples, his elbows resting on the table before letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s karate.” A dragged on pause. “And she’s a brown belt.” He ruffles his hair. “She doesn’t upgrade to black til this winter.”

Another laughing fit from Iwaizumi. “But look on the good side! At least you’re famous now.” He jests.

Oikawa rolls his eyes so hard he might have just seen the back of his head. “Please. I am _already_ famous. So I don’t need a video of my ex practicing her martial arts on me straight into a random pool to circle the internet to gain more clout. Thank you very much.”

Iwaizumi isn’t convinced but he doesn’t push any further, but he points out something different. “By the way...” he trails off. “Wasn’t that [Surname] giving you a hand at the end of the video?”

He raises his head to meet Iwaizumi’s, the wing spiker continues. “I didn’t know you two were close.”

“We aren’t.” Oikawa doesn’t miss a beat; and quickly notices how his indifferent response catches the other off guard, so he clarifies. “We’re not close. It just happened that she was close by and helped me get up from the pool.”

The boy across him pauses momentarily before releasing a hum of understanding. Oikawa doesn’t know why he feels relieved, but the feeling was short-lived before he is suddenly reminded of something important.

“What time is it?” Iwaizumi checks his watch. “2:52” He peers back up to the brunet. “Why?”

In an instant, Oikawa is up on his heels and scrambling to gather his belongings. “Shit! I gotta go. “He hurriedly downs the last bit of Gatorade left on his bottle before chucking the mess. “We have a family dinner tonight and my mom’s gonna cut my fingers off if I don’t come home and help her cut the sashimi.”

The brunet is already on halfway out of the store when he calls out, “Thanks for cleaning up, Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi heaves a sigh.

* * *

Oikawa Emiko is a woman that‘s not easily impressed. Her husband, Oikawa Taishiro, had to woo her for their entire second year of high school before she even agreed to be courted. Clearly, her high standards were not in vain when she ended up dating the same guy for the next decade and have been happily married to him for the past twenty-seven years.

With that said, she was a woman with an iron-clad resolve and that applied to every single thing in her life; even her son’s poor excuse of salmon sashimi was no exception.

“Oikawa Tooru... What did I just say about keeping the knife flat against the fish?!”

Oikawa Tooru with his bangs swept up by a headband to clear his line of vision and sleeves rolled up while cutting the salmon — per his mother’s demands, feigns ignorance under the scrutinizing eyes of the woman. He drops the knife on the board and stumbles on his words, “It’s not me I swear! It’s the knife, it’s probably dull!”

With a hand on her hip, she counters. “How do you explain these then?” His mother picks up an oddly shaped piece followed by another and another. Oikawa runs out of excuses.

The middle-aged woman who was the spitting image of her son gives him a sharp look and the brunet wordlessly steers clear of the work station. She took the abandoned Yanagiba knife and began salvaging the raw salmon. He stands uneasily near the fridge; a safe distance away from his volatile mother who now wielded a knife.

He gawks in both amusement and fear of her precise and swift cuts through the fish. Although not the first time seeing his mother knife skills, he can’t help but be fascinated at her sheer tenacity and control over her extremities. Now he is certain where he takes after for his nimble fingers.

“What are you still doing here?” Frustration is evident in her voice laced with traces of surface-level anger from her son's incompetence. 

“Well— Ah. I do—“

She seethes as she rubs her temples with the dangerously sharp knife still on her hand before she uses the same hand and began pointing to the direction of the dining area. “Just, just go help your father and set up the table. The [Surname]’s are gonna be arriving soon.”

Oikawa doesn’t need to be told twice.

He enters the dining area expecting to do what is asked of him, only to be beaten to the punch by two middle-aged men: his father and _yours_.

“Tooru-kun! How are you?” Your father greets him first, his dad only sparing him a glance before returning to his task. “It’s been a while hasn’t it?”

Oikawa greets him with a polite bow. “You just saw me a month ago, uncle.” He respectfully reminds the elder with a warm smile.

“Right. I see you’ve grown taller!” He _hasn’t_ but he doesn’t correct the old man. He recognizes basic pleasantries when he hears it. He, himself, resorts to small talk most of the time. So in place, he sheepishly rubs at his nape as he says his _thank you’s_.

Then, he turns to his own father who was already in the middle of fixing the last set of cutleries. “Do you need any help, dad?”

Without looking at him, the greying man replies. “We’re just about done, son. There’s nothing two forty-something good looking men can’t handle!” His hearty laugh boomed throughout the house.

Suddenly, Oikawa feels the need to light-heartedly remind the older Oikawa male. “Dad, you’re fifty-two. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do? Mom’s gonna snap my fingers if she sees me doing nothing.”

His father finally meets his eyes, a hint of playfulness was communicated between father and son. “Actually, why don’t you accompany [Name]-chan in the living room. I’m sure she’s getting bored waiting for dinner.”

The first time his dad ordered him this exact chore, like the brat that he was, he refused to do as told. After that, his father never bothered doing so again; not until today. If your father wasn’t standing right _there_ , the brunet wouldn’t give a second thought about doing the exact same. And his father knew that. Yet, he still went ahead and asked the damn question, cleverly manipulating the situation to his advantage and turning it on him

Oikawa huffs. _Touché, dad._

He seeks your father’s eyes out of — Respect? Manners? Approval? He’s not quite sure. But when the older man nods at him, he takes that as a cue to leave.

Albeit, when he reaches the living room and sees you sitting on the couch, eyes glued on to your phone, only then does he recognize how horribly fucked this set up was. He freezes in place. He thinks you don’t see him standing idly by the hallway but you do. The brunet only realizes this when you reluctantly call out a “Hey,”

 _Fuck_.

“Hey!” He was certain his voice just now was a pitch higher than normal. With no avail, he entered the space and sat on the couch across from you; the lone kotatsu occupying the space in the middle of the living room.

Now distracted from the mobile game you were busying yourself with, you question the boy’s unprecedented action. Not sure what to make of his presence, you take a guess. “Is dinner ready?”

You instantly let down your feet from the sofa and began toeing the discarded inside slippers you took off earlier. You were about to stand when the brunet squeals out an “N-No! Not yet... “ He sounded... unsure. “It’s probably gonna be ready soon though.” He backs it up with a forced chuckle.

Across the room, Oikawa can only internally berate himself for acting like a complete fool. Being awkward was unlike him at all! Oikawa Tooru doesn’t just succumb to awkward situations, he creates them.

You _know_ he’s not acting like himself at all but you brush it off thinking you don’t really have the credentials to be a judge of how he acts normally, more so when doesn’t.

Appearing to be distracted by your phone, Oikawa sees through your act. He _knows_ you're bothered by his presence; he’s sure you could tell just by the way you’ve been stealing glances at him since he got here. He compares your face to a blank canvass where you let your feelings splatter as blank paint does on white. If this were under any other circumstances, he would’ve even internally laughed at your troubled expression. But alas, it was not.

For there were _two, big fat elephants_ suffocating both of you in the room.

The first one was inevitable. He just broke up with Kirari, your best friend. That he knows. You were bound to confront him at some point.

But the second one was completely unwarranted. He didn’t know where to even start or if he even addresses how you literally had to pull him up from the pool that Kirari kicked him into last night.

_By the way! I’m sorry for breaking your best friend’s heart and thanks a lot for helping me out last night when she deliberately kicked me in the face straight into ten feet deep of water!_

He sighs. _But the real question was when? When will you bring it up so that he can finally get over it and move on with his life?_

An estimated five minutes pasts and he gets nothing but complete and utter silence from you. He was preparing to confront you when you clear your throat.

_About time._

“So...” Oikawa anticipated the string of curses; the anger and hatred for the boy who broke your best friend’s heart. He patiently waits for it to come, but it doesn’t.

“Did you guys happen to change your wifi? The network isn’t showing anymore.”

_Huh?_

You continue. “I usually wouldn’t ask but my data is already running low so...”

_Oh._

He doesn’t realize you’ve crossed the threshold of the kotatsu and was now standing in front of him until your phone entered his line of vision. Hesitantly, he takes your phone. “Yeah... we switched carriers just a week ago.” He taps on their new Wifi network and punches in the password. _Oikawasarethebest1234._

“Here you go”

Feeling accomplished, you take your device back with a toothy grin. “Thanks.” You head back to your spot. Once settled, your eyes don’t leave your phone anymore. Again, he waits for a few excruciatingly agonizing minutes and then he almost frowns. 

“And by the way...” The brunet’s ears perk up at your voice; he doesn’t notice how he was nodding like an eager puppy.

“Are Takeru and his mom not coming?” He notices the way the corners of your lips tug when talking about his nephew. “It’s just that, they always get here before dad and I and it’s kinda weird without the lil brat around, you know.” A ghost of a smile lingers on your lips.

A force of habit pushes him to run his hands through his hair, although he stops when he feels the headband impede the course of his fingers. He pulls on the elastic before replying candidly. “The hag is busy working on her thesis so Takeru’s staying with his dad over the summer.”

“Oh.” You’re expression returns to its impassive state. He returns your empty gaze before your eyes retreated back to your phone.

_You don’t ask him any more questions for the night._

Soon after your series of awkward conversations, the Oikawa matriarch announces that dinner is served from the kitchen loudly enough for the two to hear. Both of you made your way towards the dining room, one trailing the other, where you were greeted by the appetizing smell of food and the loud chatters of their half-drunken fathers.

Dinner went by as usual, just as it did for the past years the tradition had been going on for. His father quickly filled in on his dad joke quota for the night to which your father followed suit. Only his mother seemed to enjoy — understand — the plethora of politics-related jargon that spewed from the men’s mouths throughout the night; she chimes in every once in a while.

The brunet ate his meal quietly — keeping his responses short and concise when asked and engaging small talk when needed. You did the same.

To his delight, the sashimi still tasted okay despite his earlier butchering of the fish. The miso soup tasted the same as it did this morning and the tamagoyaki was just a tad bit bland as usual.

The silence between the two of you was normal. Your wordless interaction held, save the time you asked him to pass the soy sauce to which he replied with nothing but the condiment in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing Iwaizumi on this one. I wasn’t expecting to write almost half of it in his perspective but it just felt right??
> 
> At first, I was unsure of how I wanted to write him because I didn’t want to characterize him like his only purpose in the story was to scold Oikawa. They literally have been best friends since they were children,,, so I tried to stay away from making his whole personality ‘Shut up Shittykawa!’ ya feel? But don’t quote me on that if I end up going back on my words. (Hope not).
> 
> Also!!! How do you guys like the short glimpse of the Oikawa family dynamic? Just a heads up, his family members are all going to be original characters in this au except for Takeru. This was just how I envisioned Oikawa’s home life to be. 
> 
> Lastly, idk if anyone caught it but. Maybe I have a thing for Oikawa’s forehead. Just maybe.
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you stick for more! Leave a comment if you want;)) Lemme know your thoughts on this!


	3. The Pool Scene™

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pools of warm honey bore onto your own, interlaced in them was the mix between offense and confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Hello!! I rewrote like half of this chapter (mostly the second half) and I urge you to read it again because I had to fix a lot about the reader's characterization and internal dialogue and whatnot. But it's fine if you don't wanna because the plot basically remains the same, but the future chapters may not align with the vibes lmao. Thanks for understanding and sorry for the bother:')
> 
> me: cannot for the life of me start 500 words of my research paper  
> also me: here's a 6k word chapter

**Fri, Aug 6,** 8:12 PM

the hell is this and why can i hear one dance playing all the way from the street

???you said this was a small get together

  
Your he r?

?where are you

GUESS

tell me now or i leave

FinE

Ur SO LAME u know that

yes

  
The kitfhen

 **Fri, Aug 6,** 11:53 PM

WHERe’d you GO

DUDE YOU CAN'T JUST WALK OUT AFTER MAKING A SCENE

you kicked him in the face and he fell on the pool

.The POOL

INFRONT OF EVERYONE

??HELLO

ANSWER MY CALLs

 **Sat, Aug 7,** 12:01 PM

my head hurt, where ar e u

i just walked around this whole mansion tryna look for u, whoever owns this house filthy filthy rich. i think i could live here for a week and they won’t even notice

pls send me smth so i know ur alive

ANYTHING

.TAKAEDA KIRARI

im going home u better not be dead

 **Mon, Aug 9,** 9:23 AM

I’m alive.

Going to America to visit my mom for a bit.

Also gonna deactivate my social media so don’t freak out if I go complete mia.

Let’s talk when I get back alright?

Love you<3

 **Mon, Aug 9,** 2:43 PM

okay

stay safe

* * *

By the fifth time you’ve read over your text log with the redhead, you stopped counting the times. You don’t know why you expected an update from Kirari when she clearly told you she’s going off the grid during her trip. 

A part of you believes that you should’ve been an exception since you _are_ her best friend. Clearly, you weren’t, an exception that is.

But you don’t blame her for doing so. 

It has only been four days since that night; and it sure has been the talk of high schoolers in Sendai. Everyone now exclusively referred to it as _The Pool Scene_ — a much shorter and easier way of saying ‘Oikawa Tooru’s ex, yes, the one with red hair from Shiratorizawa, kicked him in the face so hard he fell into the pool at some house party’

And of course, with a public fight like that — in a high school party nonetheless, there was just bound to be someone with their phone out to capture the whole thing. Luckily for Takaeda Kirari, there were just about a dozen videos of her kicking Oikawa Tooru into the pool captured in different angles — the shot from the second-floor terrace was by far the most famous one.

That sixty-second video circling around, was nothing but an out of context outburst; but of course, no can be bothered to know the backstory when ‘the raging ex-girlfriend violently kicking the captain of a star volleyball team into a pool’ narrative was easy to sell.

They had the perfect narrative and they ran with it. It’s not like you didn’t see it coming either. What you didn’t expect, was for it to become so _ugly_. 

Indeed, with the power of the internet on their bare fingertips, teenagers were, well, _teenagers_. The universe was funny that way. The thought had already passed your mind a couple of times — Would you still be this riled up if The Pool Scene didn’t involve someone you knew — your best friend specifically? And you want the answer to be _No_ so bad, but that just wasn’t the case.

In reality, if this wasn’t Kirari, you would’ve acted like everybody else. Watch the video, get a few laughs out of it, might even give it a like and send it to your group chat to gossip about. 

Your moral compass is writhing on how hypocritical this all felt.

Asides the sympathizing comments for Oikawa and the ones defending Kirari — you were a part of the latter, of course, there was the handful of nasty ones. You know, the ones calling her names, sending her death threats, and the likes. How kicking her ex into a pool garnered her death threats is still incomprehensible. 

Yes, Kirari was far from innocent but that, she did not deserve. But then you think; and you think real hard. If anyone were to withstand all of this, it would’ve been Kirari. _It should’ve been her_. So why in the hell is she running now? 

That’s something you have yet to discover the answer to. You heave a sigh. Yet then again, this was Kirari you’re talking about. There are no absolutes.

“Ooh.... Is our little [Nickname] having problems texting a boy?” A honeyed voice spoke from above you, a head of wavy black hair replacing the view of the ceiling.

You were about to reply with a snide when your phone was easily taken from your grasp. “What the hell Ishii?”

 _Ishii_ ignores your shrilling protests and turns his back to read the messages on your screen. He moans lewdly, suggesting that he’s reading anything remotely sexual.

Although confident that there’s not a sliver of implicating content on your phone — not that you would just have it out in the open anyways, you still rose up from the tatami mat where you were once sprawled.

The taller male hears your footsteps so he intuitively raises his hands in time to distance the phone away from you. Immediately realizing that your efforts were futile, you stood on top of the kotatsu, the table adding enough height for you to reach the device from his hand.

Stealthily, he dodges your hand at the last moment and chuckles obnoxiously. “Nana, catch!” Leaving you with nothing, he tosses your phone to the blonde on the other side of the room.

 _Nana_ , with her fortunately quick reflexes, does not drop your phone. With her free hand, she lazily reaches over to grab the TV remote, pausing the show first, before flashing you a quick devilish smirk and sprinting towards the kitchen. 

Still, quite literally above ground, you attempt to step down and chase her but Ishii was quick. He blocks your path with his long limbs while Nana runs with your phone all the way in between your interconnected living room-kitchenette space. And with no remorse, she reads your messages with Kirari aloud dating all the way from Friday night using a voice you assume is supposed to be replicating — mocking yours. 

You pull at his hair, palm his face, throw unrelenting punches to his shoulder and jabs at his back to weaken his resolve but your efforts ultimately fail when he upholds his guard. When Nana finally concludes her mini-performance, only then does he let you go.

Unceremoniously, you marched with heavy steps and snagged the phone from the blonde’s hold and returned to the living room, all while ignoring the duo’s delinquent chuckles.

Nana gives in first, her tone still mocking. “Aw, are you mad?” You’re not mad, annoyed maybe. This wasn’t the first time this happened between the three of you; although, you would’ve preferred not to be on the receiving side of their childish antics. 

You curse them out with no malice, plopping down the tatami mat, cross-legged. “Need I remind, you two are literally in my house.”

Ishii singsongs as he drops to the floor next to you. “What a killjoy.” Nana does the same, taking the spot beside the boy. The three of you resume watching the neglected episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender. 

There’s no tension, just plain silence as the three of you resettle in with each other’s company. The two don’t apologize; you don’t necessarily expect or want them to. It was petty and the three of you know it.

The ending credit of the episode finally rolls and Ishii thinks it’s so funny and clever to start the conversation with, “Damn, I wish I could also go to America to visit my mom.”

Nana diverts her attention from the screen to him. With a droopy smile, she simplifies his sentiments, “I wish I could go to America.”

A pregnant pause.

They think you’re about to scold them again. Instead, you flatly state, “I wish I had a mom.”

Your friends turn to look at you, stormy greys and charcoal blacks growing wide and uneasy. Your gaze not faltering you retort with a raised brow. “What? Now, I can’t make a dead mom joke?”

It was you who erupts into laughter first. Not a second passes and the two join you in cacophonous giggles and snorts; they debunk your faux sulking from earlier’s fiasco. Ishii puts you on a light chokehold for revenge while Nana calms down momentarily and continues fantasizing about going abroad. 

For the first time since she called you that night, you forget about Kirari; and you realize you haven’t genuinely laughed this hard in a while.

The petite blonde walks in front of the TV, blocking the screen behind her. With determined eyes, she begins to muse. “But just imagine this: Burgers, pizza, fries, milkshakes, freedom!” She drags on the end of her sentence.

Ishii rolls his eyes, the palms of his hands flat on the floor supporting his body as his head peeks to the right in an attempt to watch the show. On the other hand, you decide to indulge her. “Just what exactly do you think America is?” A tease. “You do know we have those in Japan right?” Nana flips you off to which you only snort at.

With a heavy sigh, the boy beside you finally gives up reading the subtitles so he chimes in. “Don’t mind her.” He takes hold of an empty bag of chips before tossing it aside. “She thinks what she sees in the movies are accurate.” 

Nana crosses her arms around her chest. “Oh please Daniel, like _you_ know more than me?” Her sharp eyes narrow onto the other.

He argues, flabbergasted. “I’m literally American??”

She huffs smugly. “Correction, you’re an American citizen and it’s only because you were born there. Aunty literally sent you back to live with us when you were nine. You’re as Japanese as one can get!”

“Tomayto, tomahto. Same thing.” His voice matches hers.

She raises it. “It’s literally not!”

“[Name], back me up on this one.” Both turn to you, waiting for your verdict on the very controversial topic that always manages to infiltrate your group’s conversations one way or another. You’d have to admit, the dispute was quite hilarious the first couple of times; but now, it was just banal.

Nana raises a leg on top of the kotatsu, startling you. You’d have to wipe that down after. “Is Ishii American or not? Let’s discuss!” At this point, no one is paying attention to the show anymore.

 _Ishikawa Daniel_ and _Kobe Jurina_ were first cousins. 

Ishii used to live in America until he was nine before his mom sent him to live back in Japan with Nana’s family in Sendai. The full story was still unknown to you. In the three years, you’ve been friends with the two, you still don’t know how that arrangement came to be and you don’t mind keeping it that way.

But that essentially explains the root cause of this unending squabble between the two — of course, you don’t count yourself as a party to this redundant banter.

“Nationality-wise, Ishii is American. Ethnicity-wise, he’s Japanese.” You deadpan the facts as you pull out your phone. You always abstained from siding with one cousin over the other. 

“But [Name]!” They bark in tandem, as they did the last time you answered the exact same when the topic was brought up last. To their demise, their whines fall onto deaf ears. 

The cousins can only gape as you tap away at your phone in search of something. Indifferent, you offer after a few seconds, “I’m ordering boba. What do y’all want? My treat.” They both look at you like you grew a second head. 

It doesn’t take much to shut your friends up. 

“The offer expires in three, two—“ 

Free food does the job most of the times. It works even better if it’s unmitigated. As you expect them to do, they let their senseless argument go for something less tedious and more tolerable. It’s what’s so great about your whole friendship. 

_It’s simple._

To pass time, Avatar: The Last Airbender serves as background noise as the three of you indulge yourselves in your own separate worlds: Ishii is currently in your kitchen scavenging your fridge and Nana who got a hold of your laptop, was in the process of browsing through pictures of vacation hotspots abroad.

You contemplate whether or not to snark on how much of a ‘quality bonding time’ this all was — mocking the two’s proposition when they decidedly show up at your house unannounced two hours ago. Ultimately, you decide that the prospect of another senseless dispute was not your definition of quality bonding time either.

So you choose the next thing possible to keep you occupied: your screen.

Even though you knew it was to be expected, a scowl still forms on your face when the first thing you see is the thumbnail of a soaking wet Oikawa Tooru. This video in particular was taken from up close, although, nowhere near as close as you were that night, but close enough to hear the ex-couples’ voices in semi-decent quality. 

Ironically enough, despite feeling so strongly against the spread of _The Pool Scene_ you don’t find yourself scrolling past it. Any of it. 

In fact, you watch intently as the same scene unfold repeatedly: She shouts at him, he tries to calm her down, she yells even louder, she charges, and then boom he’s a feet away and ten feet underwater. And every single time, you just stood there watching it unfold.

A few scrolls and there it was again. It plays out just how it did that night. But it does not even come close to capturing what you saw. None of them do.

They don’t capture the way the red in Kirari’s hair did not compare to the fire in her eyes when she looked at him. They don’t capture how dark Oikawa’s eyes were that it battled the infinite blackness of the night sky. That despite what the video captured, it was Oikawa who had won that fight. Not the other way around. 

It felt wrong for you to even be thinking about this. Just subconsciously knowing it feels like you’ve somehow intruded on a very intimate and personal moment only they should know. That even though you just stood there and did nothing, you’ve intercepted more by simply being there.

It takes a series of ear-piercing rings to ricochet throughout the walls of your house to put an end to your video watching and you couldn’t have been more delighted to be interrupted.

“Finally.” Ishii rejoices with a groan as he walks back from the kitchen with a bag of chips in hand.

Lazily, you stood up from your comfortable position, adjusting your shorts and dusting off the imaginary dust on your old Aoba Johsai gym shirt turn sleep shirt. Another ring in the doorbell rattles you which almost made you forget to grab your wallet.

You slide the shoji screen hurriedly, letting yourself out the hallway before sliding it right back in. Once in the genkan, you quickly gave yourself a look over in the decorative mirror next to you. 

Staring back at you is two-day-old hair, an unwashed face, a double chin — courtesy of the extra three pounds you’ve gained in the span of two weeks, and to top it all off, a big fat pimple sits on your forehead.

The delivery guy rings the doorbell again. How impatient is this guy? You unlock the door and a head of familiar chocolate brown hair greets you. 

Your irritation leaves as soon as it came when you see a familiar face. _Akiyama Akira_ takes a few seconds to recognize you; but when he does, he greets you with high-spirited _Senpai!_ followed by a ninety-degree bow. A rush of dopamine courses through you as you return his smile.

The first year’s unexpected appearance at your front door, finally makes sense when your gaze landed on the logo on his left breast pocket.

“I didn’t know you worked.”

He sheepishly grins. “Ah, well. My aunt actually got me a job at the café near school.” You reply a meagre _Oh_.

“I just started this Monday and they already got me doing deliveries senpai! Can you believe that?!” Akira childishly complains to you like a toddler does to their mother, you can’t help but pat the younger boy’s head. 

_Damn, you sure do have a soft spot for this kid._

“Is that so?”

The transaction lasted longer than usual due to the recent hire’s struggle to operate the machine, which you would’ve ticked you off if this was just any other delivery guy; but this was your Kouhai, a friend. So you lend him a helping hand and offered a patient smile.

“Thanks for ordering senpai and for helping me with the machine. Make sure to order again soon!” And with that, the first year bows his head again in respect and gleefully skips out to your gate. 

The plastic that held your drinks felt cool to the touch. With the sudden juxtaposition of the outside heat, you begin to sweat. But before you are able to return to your friends and enjoy the refreshments, the doorbell rings again. 

_He must’ve forgotten something._

You glance briefly at your hands to check your order — it didn’t seem like anything was wrong with it, before turning the knob.

“What are you doing here, Oikawa?” 

Oikawa Tooru stood before you. Dubiously, you eye the overflowing woven basket of peaches in his arms and how red decorative ribbon tied on the handle stood out in contrast to the shades of browns.

He briefly motions to the basket on his arms to which he swiftly hands off to your hold. “My mom sent me to give you and uncle this. She got it on bulk this morning.”

_That made sense._

But along with the three large drinks you are already carrying, the added weight on your arms to say the least made you scowl. Even if Oikawa did notice your expression, he didn’t show it as he keeps on an unformidable smile. 

A few inches above his pearly whites, you take notice of the discolouration on his right cheek. Unlike last week’s dinner where you last saw him, he didn’t bother covering up the bruise anymore.

“She mentioned how your dad likes them a lot but can’t seem to have the time to pay the market a visit.”

“Oh.” Since when did your old man even eat fruit. Nonetheless, you forge cheerful gratitude. “Tell your mom thanks! Dad and I will enjoy them.” With your foot, you attempt to nudge the door shut when a hand grabs a hold of the frame.

“Wait.” 

You hiss, the weight pulling down on your arms straining your muscles by the second. Somehow, the brunet manages to invite himself in. Now, the two of you are standing inside your very cramped genkan. 

_Great._

Growing impatient, you demanded. “What is it?” The brunet takes another step closer, you don’t move — quite literally because there’s nowhere else to move to. 

As he shortens the distance between you to two steps, you barely catch how his shoulders slump as he begins to speak. “I just want to let you know it wasn’t my intention to hurt Kirari.” 

_This was unexpected._

“— I know you two are close friends and I completely understand if you despise me right now. But I just want to clear up last Friday’s mess.”

He pauses and stares intently into your eyes. “Just know it wasn’t my intention for us to end that way and if I knew she was at the party, I wouldn’t have come.” His tone was sincere and not once did he falter. He was straight to the point and all the right words are coming out of his mouth. For a second, you were convinced.

You shift the weight of the fruit basket on your arms and simultaneously juggle the plastic bag hooked between your thumb and index fingers. Once the force felt more evenly distributed, you give Oikawa an ambivalent look. 

“Look, I understand what you’re trying to say and I don’t despise you.” A look of relief flashed through his eyes.

“It’s really none of my business.” You tried to be gentle with your release but no tone or delivery can conceal the weight of your words. “But if this was just to save face, you don’t have to bother. I don’t need your apologies. I’m not the one you hurt.”

He doesn’t say anything, so you continue, still keeping your voice down and composed. “If there’s anyone who you should be apologizing to, it’s Kirari. I don’t know what happened between the two of you that night but I know damn well she wouldn’t be kicking you into a pool if you didn’t deserve it.”

Oikawa’s back collides with metal.

“A word of advice.” You trail off, tone now border-line condescending. “Showing remorse through your actions wouldn’t hurt either. I know you see the comments.” His eyebrow raises. Not a challenge— No, he was anticipating; and you carefully deliver.

“Tell them off, Oikawa. That’s the least you could do.” 

At this moment, despite the inches he had over you, Oikawa cowered under your gaze. _He was smaller._

Only now do you realize how you’ve been gradually cornering the brunet — so much so that he backed off straight to your door. You recoil your head back with no second thought; however, the tight vicinity of the space still leaves you within a single step of each other.

Instinctively, you already began gnawing on the insides of your cheeks just as you replayed your words back to yourself. It was a miracle how you didn’t stutter once throughout that whole speech you impulsively pulled off at the last second.

The more you think— _overthink_ , the words you just said, the more uncertain you grow of yourself. You didn’t plan on saying any of that. The plan, if there was even a plan, was to just take his misdirected apology and get the conversation over with. Because you said it so yourself, it was none of your business.

A self-deprecating laugh escapes your mouth; you try to suppress it with your hand but it was too late. Pools of warm honey bore onto your own, interlaced in them was the mix between offence and confusion.

But you don’t hold eye-contact for long because thanks to your hand that involuntarily flew away, the basket goes askew. “Oh shit.” 

The heavy basket almost tips over, your body along with it. But Oikawa reacts quickly and holds onto the bottom of the basket, your hands along with it.

_He had clammy hands._

“[Nickname]!” You and the brunet flinch. “The hentai isn’t gonna watch itself!”

Taken aback by the disruptive booming voice, you defensively back up and shouted in the direction of the source. “Shut up Ishii!”

“Sorry about that, I actually got people over right now.” You say with a dry chuckle. 

_He’s not saying anything._

“He was joking by the—“ 

A heavy elbow drops on top of your shoulder. “Oh, I wasn’t.” Before you could refute his statements, Ishii beams to the brunet with a grin, “What’s up Tooru-kun!” The genkan feels even smaller.

In a way you haven’t seen before or at least this up close, Oikawa easily switches demeanour when he sees your friend. “Ishii-chan!” He greets him with ease.

That unapologetic confidence, that unmistakable Poster child student-athlete smile and that self-aware girls-love-him-and- boys-want-to-be-him attitude he has going on for him all clicked into place.

“I just came to drop these off and I was just about to leave. Right, [Name]-chan?” He gives you a gentle smile, only this time you know it’s not sincere. You don’t confirm nor deny his question.

The way your name leaves his mouth rubs you the wrong way. In the years you’ve known him, he never addressed you informally. Was that deliberate just now?

“Is that so?” You’re too preoccupied being offended that you don’t catch it when Ishii uses that tooth-rotting voice he only uses to flirt. “Are you sure? We got room for more people in the [Surname] residence.” 

The two guys converse like you weren’t there, or more fittingly like they’re purposefully ignoring you were there. Forcefully, you cough twice, making your presence known again. You send a knowing side eye to your friend.

“I see. That’s unfortunate then. Goodbye, Tooru-kun!” Oikawa dips his head casually and utters a Bye, Ishii mirrors him and before you know it, the door was shut to your face. The weight on your shoulder is lifted. 

_You can’t feel your arms anymore._

“What was that?” He interrogates immediately once the brunet was out of earshot. You respond by passing off the damn fruit basket to his hold. He grunts at the sudden weight. You don’t wait for him when you make a beeline back to the living room.

Sliding the shoji screen wide open, Nana’s petite frame is blocking the entrance. But as if looking for something or someone, she squishes herself past the Ishii and you and her eyes travel down the hallway leading to your front door. When she sees nothing but the unorganized shoe rack, she inquires hurriedly, “Was that—“

“Oikawa Tooru?” Ishii replies for you as he made his way inside the living room, dropping the heavy basket of peaches on top of the kotatsu. “Yup.”

Nana’s silently gapes — her mouth forming a small _o._ So her suspicions were correct. With curious eyes, she pries further, “Isn’t he your friend’s—“

You let out a tired sigh. “Ex-boyfriend? Yeah.” A suggestive whistle leaves Nana’s lips. 

The condensation of the cold drinks dangling near your exposed thigh reminds you of their existence. Unwittingly, you pass on the plastic bag to the blonde before taking refuge on the empty couch inside. The two reconvened around the kotatsu.

You lay flat on the couch. The view of the ceiling was calming if only the silence can uphold. But Nana obstructs the quietness that unknowingly came to be as she quizzically shifts her gaze from you to Ishii then to you again, waiting for someone to break the ice.

But before you could stop him, he reveals, “Okay. So I wasn’t able to hear anything but I swear she was about to pounce on Tooru-kun.”

You scoff. “I was not.” You monotonously defended yourself. It was the truth. A. It would be dumb to try and lay a hand on a six feet tall athlete. B. Verbal attacks have always been proven to be more effective. C. You simply did not have the guts like Kirari.

“We were just talking.” 

Ishii is unconvinced with your watered-down version of the truth. However, Nana completely misses the mark when her eyes widen before smugly turning to look at your figure. “Holy shit, [Name]. I see you!”

Suddenly, you begin to feel something _ugly_ pooling at the pits of your stomach.

The blonde reaches across the kotatsu to pull out the closest peach out of the basket. “I mean if Oikawa Tooru, the resident pretty boy of Seijoh, is visiting your house with a basket of peaches in hand.” She pauses for the dramatics. “Then, I would like to apologize for underestimating you [Surname]-sama.” 

You don’t need to see to know the two shared a high-five in agreement.

You needed something to drink. Tossing your legs to the side of the couch, you move to join the two on the ground. Your untouched drink sitting on the table practically speaks to you in all its 475.50¥ glory; so you grab it with no avail.

You clear your throat. “So what are you implying?” 

_You know damn well what she’s implying._

A sly smirk forms on Ishii’s mouth. “What we’re tryna say is—“

You cut him off, your voice cracking ever so slightly. “I know what you two are trying to say.” The straw makes a pop when pierced through the plastic seal. “I was just making sure if you’re sure you want to say it” 

You take a much-needed sip before carrying on, their gaze doesn’t leave you. “Do I really need to remind you two that he was literally just in a relationship with Kirari. My best friend? I’m sure I’ve mentioned _her_ before, right?” The two practically squirmed on how acidic your tone was.

“Wait...” Nana’s drawn eyebrows meet to form a line. “Who’s Kirari again?” Your eyes narrow into slits; the building frustration over the whole ordeal earlier toppled off with your friends’ absurd insinuations, geared to unleash. 

“I’m kidding!” 

She carefully places the peach back at the top of the pile. “I’m kidding. How can we not know?” She turns to the other and he bobs his head. “She was practically all everyone talked about this weekend.” 

Right. _The Pool Scene_ was everywhere. The two were even the first ones to bombard you with questions when you woke up that afternoon.

Ishii chimes in. “From the looks of his cheek earlier, I guess the kick was as bad as it looked on video.” 

“The way she jump kicked Oikawa-san into that pool... sexy.” You blink.

“I’d let her kick me into a pool.” You blink again.

“Please tell me she’s into girls.“ And again.

Ishii doesn’t wait for you to reply before reinforcing both their demands, a palm supports his head on the table as he leans towards you. “I gotta agree with Nana on this one. I can't believe you haven’t introduced us yet, [Name]. We need good looking people in the group.”

Nana almost chokes on her drink when she speaks too quickly. “Excuse you, Daniel. But I’m hot as hell.” A jab on the ribs and Ishii wheezes. “And I already called dibs on her so back off.“

Dumbfounded, you don’t even know where to begin to address everything that was just said. But you don’t say anything. 

Instead, you sit wordlessly as you watch the two exchange altercations, allowing the normality of the chaotic situation — which paradoxically enough — calm you down.

And without batting you an eye, they move forward.

“By the way, how do you even know him? You’re not in the same class.” 

His eyes glimmer mischievously. “Oh, I have my ways.”

A stray throw pillow makes direct contact with Ishii’s face. “That is disgusting.” Nana chastises her cousin’s questionable words.

“What the fuck, Nana. We have joint gym class together!“ 

At some point you know you’d have to interfere but you let it be for now. For once, you allow their nonsensical bull to distract you, especially from the unsettling feeling bubbling away inside you.

“Oh.” Nana pauses to process the information. “Oh, that’s what you mean?”

“What exactly did you think I was talking about?” 

“Don’t matter.” She deflects easily. "Speaking of Oikawa-san, is he like _you know_?"

"Huh?"

The blonde cousin stammers, "Like, like _you know_."

You instantly get where she's going to but it takes Ishii a few seconds to catch on to her insinuation. " _Oh_." He drags on, shaking his head before saying in between laughs. "I honestly don't even know."

You don’t take their words with an ounce of seriousness. How the two manage to go from assuming you were attacking Oikawa Tooru to implying you had some sort of relationship with him to setting themselves up with the ex-couple and to finally questioning the brunet’s sexuality, was beyond you.

The wavy-haired boy cocks his head to the side. “I mean I think everyone's at least a little gay.” Nana hums in agreement. “You think [Name] knows? Aren't they like childhood friends or something?.”

_We're not childhood friends._

You wanted to object, but you can't seem to find the energy nor the will to do so. 

“Right! What’d _you_ think? Is Oikawa Tooru gay or not? Give us the verdict [Surname]-sama.” Reminiscent of this earlier's banter, Ishii and Nana both turn to look at you. There was no way of knowing what expression you had on at the moment — you’re assuming some mixture of discomfort, displeasure and disturbance; but Ishii and Nana don’t point it out or maybe they simply don’t notice at all. Either way, they made it effortless for you to feign ignorance.

They wait for your opinion expectantly. “I don’t know.” 

The raven and blonde share one quick look before they chorus. “Lame.” 

They don’t question you any further, brushing it off as a normal reaction from you. Soon enough, they drop the topic overall and hop on to another. 

A smile creeps on to your lips. _It was always that easy with them._

A ping! alerts you and your hands automatically roam, randomly patting down on the tatami mat until your hands paw the familiar rectangular shape. Your lips fall back into a line as your thumb hovers on the new message notification. Taking a momentary pause before unlocking your phone, you swallow dryly. 

* * *

**Today** 5:53 PM

I’m back!

When can we meet?

* * *

The feeling in your abdomen makes itself known again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVED WRITING THE COUSINS. When I started writing this, I knew I wanted reader to have more friends than just the designated best friend. Since they do go to different schools it just made sense she had an entirely different friend group and also because I just didn't want her to be a loner lmfaoooo.  
> This chapter was really convo heavy and it was hard for me to write at first. I know I tagged angst but who doesn't like comic relief once in a while?? Since the characters are teenagers it just had to be done because teenagers talk a shit ton. (I like to think I got Gen-Z lingo down since I am Gen-Z but if you guys do find some of the lines/jokes cringy and outdated just let me know and I'll fix it.)  
> With that said, the characters are teens so they are gonna say some problematic shit sometimes. But that doesn't mean I condone or agree with that :)  
> Akira wasn't supposed to appear in this chapter but I just felt like if Tooru shows up right away then that's just boring lol, I think it added an element of surprise?? Probably not lol. But expect to see him more in the future chapters.  
> If Oikawa seems to be entitled and full of himself that's because ding ding ding he is!! Don't worry it's for ~character development~ 
> 
> That's basically it. Ngl I already have the next chapter drafted up and it's really angsty tbh so just a heads up. Again, I love seeing you guys' comments and it's honestly very encouraging and motivating. Let me know what you think about this so far.


	4. It had to be done.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You looked tired."
> 
> "Tired would be an understatement."
> 
> "Yeah no shit, Tooru."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't know I rewrote Chapter 3 so if you read the first update, I urge you to give it a try again. I changed and added quite a few stuff that would be important for the future chapters to make sense. I'm so sorry for the inconvenience.
> 
> Also, I want to give a quick shoutout to 廃人_Yu. Thank you for your insight regarding the last chapter. It really helped me out a lot.
> 
> Enjoy reading:))

“Oikawa Tooru?” A feminine voice slices through the thick and heavy silence that encompassed the hallway. Everyone, being himself and one other senior citizen turn to a woman in all white who was in the process of scanning the hall. When the nurse’s apathetic gaze meets his, she announces. “Doctor Matsuda is ready to see you.” 

At the confirmation of his consultation, Oikawa rashly shoves his phone back in his jacket pocket. The two other people in the hallway could only watch as he stood up with ease only to almost stumble as he took his first step. 

With his full weight entrusted all on to his right foot, the ten-step trek to the doctor’s office was made impossible. He can only grunt at each painstaking step forward while his feeble left foot flails as he went. 

“I’ll assist you.” 

Oikawa’s forearm hairs stood at how close the nurse’s steely voice was to his ear. Her strong grip held his torso, providing him with immediate support. She didn’t ask for his permission but he was in no position to decline her help; so he wordlessly takes the offer by draping his arm over her shoulders and leaning on her thin frame as she guides him inside the doctor’s office.

Doctor Matsuda’s office was small compared to the ones he’s gone to before. _It was definitely smaller than Doctor Ishido’s_. The walls could use a new paint job and the furnitures, a new instalment but this was just to be expected from a run down walk-in clinic on the outskirts of Sendai. 

The walls were lined with certificates, each frame building on the prestigious titles that went after an esteemed doctor’s name. Arguably, this was meant to be assuring — that with years of study and practice, this doctor was more than qualified to treat patients. But to him, nothing could possibly take the edge off from seeing a doctor. Even more so, seeing yet _another_ one. 

The nurse drops him off at the exam table before promptly going back to the front desk. Shifting uncomfortably on the stiff surface, Oikawa strips off his gym bag and places it beside him. From his elevated vantage point, he is given a clear glimpse of the bleak sky outside through the window. _It looked like it was about to rain._

“How are you feeling Oikawa-san?” 

He felt himself shiver at the sound of the chipper voice. 

Doctor Matsuda wasn’t at all what he expected. She wasn’t old or greying like Doctor Ishido nor was she cold and dreary like the nurse earlier. She didn’t have the stereotypical attributes of what a doctor who worked at a third rate clinic would be should like. Or to put it simply, she looked way too young to be a doctor.

Oikawa‘s voice is coy when he quips, “You’re really pretty, Doc.”

A soft chuckle leaves her pink lips, her gloved hands hovering to cover her mouth. Her eyes were not like the nurse at all. They were kind, welcoming — _warm_. 

“I appreciate the compliment Oikawa-san, but how about we focus on you for now?” Another thing he didn’t expect was her thick accent — something south of Miyagi. He’s thinking Osaka or maybe even Hyogo.

“What brings you here today?

The brunet barely moves his dangling foot and he already winces at the pain it manifests. “Nothing serious.” A weak grin. “I sprained my left ankle about two hours ago. I already iced and wrapped it before going here. I guess I just want— needed, to make sure it was nothing more than a sprain.” 

He explains insipidly, keeping it vague as much as possible. “And I was also thinking of painkillers if that’s possible.” He tops it off with a boyish smile showcasing his front teeth.

The physician simply nods. “Seems like you know a lot.” She inspects the tightly wrapped compression bandage, only nudging it lightly. Oikawa tries not to hiss.

“May I ask what happened?”

He had an answer memorized for this question just in case. “I was training then I must’ve misstepped or something.” _Overtraining_ and he didn’t just misstep. He pushed himself too hard that his ankle gave up on him midway, but she didn’t need to know that.

She rolls in close sitting on the stool. With no questions asked, she begins undoing the wrap. “Basketball player?” She eyes his outfit: windbreaker, shorts and gym shoes — well one gym shoe, as he had to sub the other one out for slides earlier.

Her gloved fingers felt cold against his ankle when she presses down on the tenderness of his injury. Consequently, Oikawa’s hands form fists before gritting through his teeth. “Volleyball, actually.” Another two-fingered poke. This time he cries out an _Ah_. 

“Volleyball seems to be quite popular here in Miyagi.” She presses down on the same spot again, this time with less pressure. “In my town back in Kyoto, all everyone played was baseball” Kyoto. He guessed close enough.

She turns the injured foot from left to right “Try rotating it around for me, please.” The brunet does as told, his eyes squeezing shut when he struggles to do so.

“So what school do you go to Oikawa-san?”

Whether Doctor Matsuda was just really good at her job for even attempting to distract him from the pain with small talk or she’s just naturally chatty. Either way, he appreciated it 

“Aoba Johsai High School.” He replied curtly as he paid close attention to the physician’s hands as she examined his foot. 

“I’ve treated a volleyball player just recently as well. Maybe you’ve heard of his school. He’s from Shitorizawa Academy, was it?” Oikawa’s body stiffens at the same time her fingers hit a sore spot. 

_Oh, he’s heard plenty of it alright_. Oikawa sucks in a deep breath. “ _Shiratorizawa_ , actually.” The bitterness in his tone was barely there but it was unmistakable. Doctor Matsuda drops the topic shortly after that. The brunet wanted to convince himself that it was simply because she finished examining him and not due to his clear discomfort at her line of questioning.

“Tell you what though, you were right about the sprain Oikawa-san. However, I’d have to teach you a better way to wrap your ankle, if that’s alright with you?” A warm smile is sent his way and he tries to return it, a weaker version of it at least.

She traces the angry red lines around the bottom of his leg where the bandages were wrapped earlier. “You see, bandages are supposed to immobilize your foot, not cut your blood circulation.” She jests but there was no hint of condescension in her words, just a smidge of playfulness and plain medical facts. 

The brunet doesn’t notice she’s left her seat until she sits back down again with a box of new bandages in hand. Just as she instructed Oikawa to do, she wraps his left ankle with the brown cloth, looping the stretchy material around until the roll ends at the near his toes, securing the sprained ankle.

“And... we’re done.” Doctor Matsuda’s meets his eyes briefly before travelling back down and lingering onto his right knee. “Anything _else_ , you’d like to get checked?” 

It takes him a few seconds to catch on to her weighted words, because what else could he possibly get checked? Then it hit him. She was referring to his knee, his right knee. _How could he possibly forget?_

“No, that’s all. Thanks, Doc.” This time he forces out a smile which, unbeknownst to him, only contorted into a grimace.

Doctor Matsuda eyes him skeptically but ultimately takes his word for it. “Alright then. I’ll get your prescription written up.” The latex glove ripping off her hands makes a grating noise when she disposes it in the bin right beside him. Then she moves back to her desk where she pulls out a prescription pad and began writing down his diagnosis.

“Pain relievers aren’t necessary but if you really feel the need to, only take two a day, maximum. You can get that over the counter but we also have it here in stock. It’s on the house.” Impishly, she winks his way to which he only responds with a breathy laugh. “And as for treatment, you know the drill. Ice, compression, elevate and most importantly rest.”

This time, Doctor Matsuda turned around fully, dropping her pen on the desk and making eye contact with the boy; and her voice became serious when she instructed him, “No extensive physical activities for a week or so. Two weeks, if you want it to heal up right away. But you should be able to walk properly in two to three days.”

Oikawa digests her words carefully. Injuries, as small as a sprain or not, cannot be taken lightly. He can’t afford to take it lightly _anymore_. 

Her tone shifts back to her cheerful one. “But in the meantime, do you want us to contact a guardian to pick you up?” 

He doesn’t need to contemplate her offer. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be taking the bus.” Oikawa took the bus going here and he had planned on doing the same on the way back. How he managed to do so while his ankle was in agony? Adrenaline and fear can attest to that.

“Are you sure? It looks like it’s about to rain soon.” Doctor Matsuda peers over briefly to the window. “Not to mention, you could barely walk to my office from the hallway without any assistance.” And as if the gods acted on her words, the sullen sky grumbled. 

“Right.” There was no way he was getting home by himself. The brunet mutters a soft _fuck_ under his breath as he raked his brain for people that could possibly pick him up right now.

His parents were definitely not an option. Giving them an unnecessary scare over a mere sprain was not something he was just about to do. Especially not when the Spring Interhigh Qualifier was right around the corner. Who knows what they’ll do when they find out he’s hurt himself again? What they’ll make him do? He couldn't put his last ticket to the nationals in jeopardy. 

Iwaizumi, who was usually his out in these situations, too his sheer luck, was unavailable. The spiky-haired male had messaged him yesterday morning about a camping trip he was having with his family for the weekend. 

And just over two weeks ago, Kirari would’ve been his second option. He could imagine the redhead scolding him for overdoing his training and after that, laughing at his own foolish decisions that landed him in this situation; but she would’ve been here in a heartbeat, no questions asked. But due to his own doing, that just wasn’t the case anymore.

This only meant he was left with— He huffs bitterly at the thought, “I think I‘ll call her by myself. Thanks, Doc.”

Doctor Matsuda‘s writing stops for a split second before she replies curtly, “Sounds good.” And it better be. This plan better has been good because it’s the only one he’s got.

Unzipping his jacket pocket, the brunet grabs a hold of his device. He scrolls down his contact list until he finds the name he was looking for. Oikawa doesn’t recall the last time he’s seen this contact let alone use it. Now, he’s beginning to doubt if she even kept the same number throughout all these years.

Hesitantly, he presses on the call button. The line was static for a few seconds before it connects. It rings seven times before the receiver finally answers. “Hello?”

* * *

Nurse Hoshino, whose name he came to learn from Doctor Matsuda — not that it mattered anymore since he had no plans on returning to this place — also took initiative in assisting him back to the front lobby. With brief farewells, he was left alone in the desolated space.

After excruciatingly long thirty minutes of just fiddling aimlessly with his phone, his ride eventually arrives in the form of a vaguely familiar 2009 silver Nissan Versa. When it parks just by the entrance of the walk-in clinic, the brunet prepared himself to move again. 

Oikawa already took upon himself to pop one ibuprofen which combined with Doctor’s Matsuda’s effective wrapping of his ankle, made limping so much bearable. The automatic glass doors part at his near proximity and with no warning, the harsh wind greets him with a slap in the face.

Using his last spurts of willpower and energy, he finally reaches the sedan where he heaved a sigh in both exhaustion and frustration.

The muffled clicking of the locks ushered him to pull on the handle revealing the unlucky driver that was burdened of picking him up. She tucks her chin down as she meets his eyes. Oikawa greets her sounding more relieved than how he actually felt.

“Hey, big sis.” 

_Oikawa Emeru_ leans over the younger‘s way, one hand dancing on the steering wheel and the other wrapping around the shotgun seat’s headrest. “What happened to calling me a hag?”

He smiles sardonically. “Figured I’d drop it for today since you were kind enough to pick me up.” It was only a half-lie.

Emeru mimics his tone but with a dash more of sarcasm. “How thoughtful.” She shifts the gears from park to drive. “Now get in.”

Somehow, with zero help from his older sister — not that he wanted it anyways, he hauls his ass inside the sedan. It smelled just as the last time he was here: newly opened lemon-scented air freshener and cigarettes.

Oikawa hardly finishes settling inside the car when Emeru inquires, “How was dinner last week?” With no sense of control, she presses hard on the gas. The shabby walk-in clinic was out of sight in seconds. 

He clicks on his seatbelt, not really thinking much about her question, he replies a dry, “Same.” However, he conjures a last-second lie to keep the conversation going. “The sashimi tasted better. Mom made me cut it since you ditched.”

Unimpressed, Emeru snorts, completely aware of the brunet’s lies; but she plays along. “Too bad I couldn’t be there to taste it. Must’ve been some good sashimi.”

For some reason, the brunet was suddenly reminded of the overpowering taste of wasabi and soy sauce combined with the mushy texture of the raw salmon on his tongue. He felt like throwing up. “Yeah. It was really good.”

A few minutes of nothing passes so he mindlessly asks, “Why do you still drive this piece of crap?”

“First of all, this isn’t just any piece of crap. This is my piece of crap, which by the way, I singlehandedly paid for with my own hard-earned money. Second of all, it works just fine. It’s not like it’s breaking apart of anything.” 

The younger’s eyes trail to the cracked windshield over to the rearview mirror shoved in one of the cup holders next to a coffee cup. “You sure about that?”

“Just be thankful I’m giving you a ride, brat.” Emeru chides, earning a snicker from the other.

The first ten minutes followed the same structure. He would ask a question, she would answer in her own Oikawa Emeru eccentric way, they would laugh it off and the conversation dies. And before he knew it, Oikawa had run out of topics to discuss.

And he’s been at the edge of his seat ever since. Desperately, he needed something to flush out this uneasiness; because clearly her sister’s throwback playlist was doing a subpar job at filling in the gaps of the Oikawa siblings' ineptitude to converse as functional brothers and sisters do. The lack of an easy-going conversation made him completely open and vulnerable to the questions she may have for him. All of which, he knew were nowhere close to being as trivial as the small talk prompts he wished he had just about now.

But in life, appearances were everything and how an individual appears to be on the outside, made all the difference. Oikawa Tooru knew that well, he lived by it. Which meant even though his phone had long died from earlier’s wait, nothing was stopping him from appearing to be listening to music with his earbuds connected to a dead phone. It was about another ten minutes after when his precaution proved to be effective. 

The driver glances briefly at him before returning her eyes back to the road. “Wanna talk about it?”

Peeling off one of the earbuds — a part of his act, Oikawa purposely takes a pause as if formulating a reply, only to deflect her question. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“If you say so.” Emeru's voice wasn’t taunting but it wasn’t completely innocent either. He was prepared for her to try again, to insist on her line of questioning, to force the answers out of him... but she never did. On the contrary, Oikawa began to feel more anxious about the fact that she hasn’t more than if she did.

But nonetheless, he heaves a sigh before inserting his earbud back to continue listening to his non-existent music. 

The drive, to say the least, was long. Long in both senses that he took the extra measures of going to a clinic all the way on the other side of Sendai just to make sure he doesn’t see anyone he knows and long in a way that the uncomfortable silence had been slowly eating him up inside.

The vehicle eventually arrives at a halt at a congested major intersection. Once again, Emeru steps on the break with no avail, lurching both of them forward. Oikawa clicks his tongue at the tightened seat belt around his body. Whereas the other brunet just begins tapping on the wheel, her index, middle, and ring fingers making contact with the leather material.

_Tap._

A muffled honk from the rush hour traffic followed by another.

_Tap._

The stoplight switches from yellow to red. 

_Tap._

The pedestrian crossing sign flickers white.

_Tap._

Commuters rushed to cross the street, meandering their way across downtown Sendai.

_Tap._

The signal turns red and begins counting down.

_Tap._

Twenty.

_Tap._

Another honk.

_Tap._

Eighteen.

_Tap._

“My girlfriend and I broke up” The brunet blurt out loud and the tapping stops.

Emeru doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she turns to look at her brother first, curiosity and surprise plastered across her features. Curious about the major detail her brother just revealed and surprised over the fact that he did. 

“Why?” She complains in a way only an Oikawa can — despicable. Was this how he sounded? “I liked Rina-chan.” 

Completely taken back by the unexpected name, the brunet clears his throat before tugging the wires around his neck, removing the volumeless earbuds from his ears. Long black hair, pink cheeks, and expressive eyes flashed before him. Then a distinct memory of glossy eyes.

“Her name was Rika and I broke up with her during my first year. She’s been going strong with her new boyfriend for two years now.” 

Oikawa doesn’t have a name to his face but he does know that Rika’s new lover was in class four who may or may not be a part of the swim team or maybe even track and field. Although he does remember recognizing the guy walking hand in hand with Rika on the last day of school before break. They looked so in love that it made him want to hurl.

His sister sounded genuinely saddened to hear the old news. “That’s a shame. She was a nice girl.” 

_Yeah, she was. But it had to be done._

“Now tell me,” Shes faces him and without losing a single breath nor missing single a beat she slaps him with, “Whose heart did you break or _god forbid_ , broke yours that got you looking more sleep-deprived than a working single mom who’s in the middle of finishing her last year of university?” _That._ That was the type of questions he wanted to avoid in the first place.

The pedestrian crossing reaches zero and in mere seconds the stoplight flickers from red to yellow but only for a few seconds before it turns to green.

“Drive.” 

“Wha—“

“It’s green.” The brunet states coldly state as he points a finger forward. The driver returns her attention back to the road and sure enough, the light was green and the cars beside them were moving. One last time, she looks over her brother’s grim face before letting go of the breaks and flooring it.

As if the world concluded that he’s had enough for today, the rest of the ride was a blur. The last thing he recalls was a mellow piano tune playing before completely blacking out. Oikawa doesn’t dream of anything. In place, he sees memories — memories of that day.

That day was still vivid in his mind. He leaves right away after seventh period, passing on the fourth years’ plans to go to the local Izakaya to commemorate the end of the first trimester. He takes a bus he usually doesn’t take and goes out his way to pick Kirari up for their date — _their break-up date._

He waits patiently outside the Shiratorizawa gates, students giving him weird stares as he stands out like a sore thumb in a sea of purple in his teal and white uniform. 

When she finally reaches the gates, his eyes were immediately drawn onto her. Not just because her red locks stood out in the crowd, but because the way her eyes formed crescents when she recognized him made him reconsider his plans.

Kirari rarely smiled; but that day, she didn’t hold back. When he held her hand as they began walking, she smiled up to him and whispered _I love you_. When they first sat at the café she smiled even brighter and said _Thank you, thank you for doing this_. 

And it took Oikawa every ounce of self-restraint in his body not to just abandon his intentions and play it off like a normal date, where he could have ended the day with the image of her smile and not the frown she fought so hard not to show. 

_It just had to be done and he hated it._

On that same night, as he laid on his mattress, tossing a deflated volleyball as he was unable to sleep, he pondered on whether Kirari still would’ve smiled at him like he was the best thing that has ever happened to her if she knew that he planned on breaking up with her that night.

A harsh shake on the bicep ultimately brings him back to consciousness. Disoriented, the brunet doesn’t recognize his surroundings.

“You awake sleeping beauty?” Emeru’s high pitched voice narrows it down for him. Removing his head from the window panes that he ended up leaning his head on, Oikawa thinks it was a figment of his imagination when he sees his sister smiling weakly at him. 

He doesn’t know how long he napped for. All he knows is that he woke up feeling more tired than before. “How long was I out?” He asks groggily.

“Hmmm, let’s see, the rest of the car ride home.” She animatedly places a hand under her chin. “Plus an additional twenty minutes since we arrived.” He turns to look outside and just as she said, the car was already parked right in front of their house. The roads were still dry and the sky, still overcast. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?” His voice was hoarse, a hint of annoyance peaking through as he glares at the older girl.

She doesn’t lie when she says, “You looked tired.”

He huffs unamused and began rubbing the remnants of sleep left in his eyes. His eyelashes fluttered heavily. _They’re wet_.

“— was gonna let you sleep for longer but it was getting late and I got my thesis paper to get...”

Tentatively, his fingers trailed down his cheek. _Damp._

“It’s due right after summer break and I only got two weeks left—“

He wipes the moisture on his eyes dry with the sleeves of his windbreaker, erasing its trace. _None had to be the wiser._

Then he cuts off his sister’s rambling. “Tired would be an understatement.” 

A scoff. “Yeah, no shit Tooru.” 

Oikawa flinches at the way his sister spits out his name but he brushes it off as he grabs the strap of his gym bag stuffed between his legs. In mere seconds, the car door was open. All he had to do was step out.

“This isn’t like last time, is it? Do I need to tell mo—“

“Don’t.” He asserts, his head turned back to his sister. “You don’t need to tell mom and dad. It’s not like last time. It’s only a sprain.” His left leg steps out. He hisses in pain.

“Are you su—“

Then, the right. “Yes, the doctor told me so.” He was harsh with his words.

“Okay. I won’t tell them.” Emeru’s cedes to his demands. Then her voice dials down a notch and in full authority, she presents the younger with an ultimatum, “But you’re keeping me updated on that foot.”

His head whips back to the driver seat. “And why would I—“

“You’re the one who called me little brother. I’m responsible for you, now. If you don’t want our parents to know, then you’re doing this. Take it or leave it.”

Oikawa takes a while to contemplate the pros and cons. With a scowl, he succumbs to her conditions. “Fine.” 

Emeru shoots him a look, urging him to go on. The younger sighs. “I’ll text you...” His ass is finally off the seat. “Hag.” She titters at the return of the crude name.

Just as the brunet was about to shut the door, he hears the other ask, “Also, this doesn’t happen to have anything to do with your ex-girl—“ He slams the door with full force before she could finish her prying. The only indication he had of his sister’s departure was the loud sputtering of the engine when she started the car and the revving that gradually faded as she sped down the block.

* * *

When he enters through the front door, he announces his arrival out of habit. Thankfully, no one responds. Both his parents were still at work — the more practical reasoning as to why he couldn’t ask them to pick him up. The empty house allowed him to move or in this case, not move as he pleased.

All he wanted was to lay down on his bed and sleep but the filth and stench of his earlier escapades that clung to him made it impossible to withstand not showering for the night. 

The brunet forgoes dinner overall, telling himself it was okay since he ate a big lunch and basically had no appetite to eat anything anyways. Nonetheless, he hastily inhales a protein bar to accompany his second ibuprofen just in case. Again, he can’t afford anything _more_ to go wrong.

Of course, he doesn’t forget Doctor Matsuda’s words. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. His left ankle aching every time he attempted to go anywhere, served as a big enough of a reminder. He diligently applies a cold compress for fifteen minutes and takes the same amount of time to recreate the way the doctor had bandaged his ankle earlier. 

Stealing two pillows from the living room, he forms his own makeshift tower on the end of his bed tall enough for his feet to remain elevated as he sleeps.

And lastly, the brunet makes sure to lock his door. The last thing he needed was for his mom to walk in on him and see his sprained ankle. That would’ve just made all his efforts — going to that clinic, calling his sister for help, withstanding that car ride, limping around the house — _everything_ , in vain.

But when he finally, _finally_ , lays in bed, ready for sleep to take over his body, that’s when his body denies him.

An hour pass and he hears the clamouring of keys and the creaking of the front door. Two pairs of footsteps and voices enter the house, indicating his parents’ arrival. He hears hard knocks on his door and he knows it his mother. But when he doesn’t answer, she takes it that he’s asleep.

Another hour passes and all sounds and movements become obsolete. His parents were already asleep. All he could hear now was the harsh wind howling outside his window and his shallow breathing.

_Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exha—_

Frustrated, Oikawa rips the blankets off his body and shoots up from the bed. See, he hasn’t been sleeping well lately, that was if he did get sleep. 

Half of the time, he just laid there on his phone or if that gets too tiresome, he starts counting the dots on his ceiling and wait for his 5:00 a.m. alarm to remind him of his routine morning jog. 

The other half, he just comes home completely trashed after a full-body workout and even more volleyball to condition himself for the upcoming Spring Interhigh Qualifiers. 

He honestly preferred it better when his own body just shuts down for him, leaving him no chance to think. But the unforeseen nap he took during the car ride earlier left him high and dry — his body was still exhausted but his mind was very much awake to an extent that he couldn’t just pass out cold from fatigue.

He props his torso up to lean on his headboard, his foot still elevated on top of stiff pillows before grabbing his now fully charged phone. A lock screen filled with notifications greets him, the most recent one being a text from someone named The Hag followed by a grandma emoji. He chuckles at his own childishness.

Debating whether or not to reply to her demanding, ‘Make sure you ice it. Don’t wrap it too tightly, it’ll just make it worse and elevate it when you go sleep’ text, the brunet ultimately decides against it. He’ll reply to her tomorrow and just claim he was already asleep. In his defence, the message was sent at 2:09 a.m. 

The time was now 2:56, and roughly two more hours until his alarm rings. When that time comes, he can finally— _right_. A gruff groan leaves his lips.

He closes the messaging app and moves on to Instagram. A red bubble pops at the bottom of his screen indicating the number of likes, comments, and mentions he missed from the last time he visited the app. A month ago, this would’ve fuelled his ego; maybe even give him temporary surface-level happiness. 

But now, he knows those numbers are only a reflection of last Friday’s shenanigans or as people called it: _The Pool Scene_ ; although, the numbers seemed to have gone significantly lower. He figured people must've found something new to gossip about. A few scrolls at his page and his suspicions were confirmed through the form of a random boy flashing his buck-naked ass to the camera. 

_Classy._

He scrolls again. A hiking picture. _Scroll._ A group of girls on the beach. _Scroll._ The new viral video. _Scroll._ The video of him from Friday. _Scroll._ A corgi. _Like then scroll._ A cooking video. _Scroll._ A smiling redhead. _Scroll._ A sunset picture. _Scroll._ The vira—

He scrolls back up until he finds her post. It was a candid shot of Kirari in front of what seems to be the _Golden Gate Bridge_ according to the tagged location. He almost forgot that her hair was cut short now. He didn’t have time to process that detail on that night because he was too distracted by the fact that she was even there.

_Since when did she even leave the country? Why? Was she visiting her mother? When will she be back?_

His train of thoughts ceases when his inner voice reminds himself why exactly he wouldn’t know.

The picture was posted eight hours ago. A decent amount of likes. No comments — it was disabled. It was disabled. Suddenly, he hears a foreign voice in his head. 

**_"I know you see the comments."_ **

When he went to your house with the intention of not only delivering fresh peaches but also apologizing as he failed to do so during dinner, the brunet didn’t predict that was how you would react. 

In the years, he’s known you, only at that moment where you stood inches from him — your voice not threatening but your eyes, frigid and disapproving — did he realize that he doesn’t _know_ you at all.

To think that you thought he was there only to save face was not only degrading but also just flat out wrong. It was appalling he couldn’t bring himself to utter a single word.

However, you were right about one thing. He has seen the comments, all of them including the ones you were clearly referring to.

Oikawa had been exposed to hate comments for as long as he could remember that he just subconsciously began to pass it off as normal — _his normal_. Now, he just couldn’t be bothered to care anymore and it wasn’t just because he was an egotistical asshole like people thought he was but because if they had anything bad to say about him, most of the time they were baseless accusations; and in the rare cases that they were true, they were nothing he didn’t already know and constantly beat himself up over with.

The thought that people didn’t or rather, couldn’t handle internet bullies the same way he does hadn’t really crossed his mind, not until _you_ brought it up. 

_**"Tell them off, Oikawa. That’s the least you could do.** "_

_Was Kirari really affected by them?_ He had to really ask himself because in the almost half a year he was with her, the redhead withstood and fought the hatred and bullying she received just by being with him. This was nothing she couldn’t handle. That's what made her so different.

But that was when they were together. It was different now. He could only assume as much as he reads through the comments once more. _Was telling them off really the least he could do?_

**_"Showing remorse through your actions wouldn’t hurt either."_ **

The pitter-patter of raindrops against the roof disturbed his train of thoughts. Soon, he became too distracted by the soft thuds turned rhythmic drumming of the rain to do anything. He tosses his phone to the side. As the brunet laid wide awake on his bed, he began counting the dots on his ceilings. The task was tedious but he kept on going with the company of his shallow breathing and the rain amidst the tranquillity of the pouring night.

Contrary to his expectations, Oikawa did fall asleep that night. One moment he was counting the two hundred thirty-ninth speck and the next, he was waking up to the best sleep he’s had since the month began.

He grabbed his glasses from the bedside table and checked his phone. It was only 7:35 a.m — barely four hours of sleep, but it was better than nothing. He remembers to shoot his sister a text to uphold his part of the deal. A scanty, _Yea, I did_ , then send. 

What he didn’t plan on doing next was to be sending a text message to someone who probably had him as the last person they wanted to talk to. 

**_"I don’t need your apologies. I’m not the one you hurt."_ **

You were right. _This_ was the least he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! This update took longer than expected but it’s finally here. 
> 
> I gotta be honest with y’all, when I first uploaded the first 3 chapters of BTGC I had absolutely no idea where the story was gonna go. I kinda just went with the flow of my writing. BUT! This week I had a life-changing epiphany. I basically pulled an all-nighter and brainstormed a very rough outline of this story; and I gotta say, I made myself sad with how I wanted this fic to go. It’s gonna be roughly 30 chapters -- which even I deem is quite ambitious for my first fanfic but we’re just gonna go ahead and do it. I honestly don’t think I can pull it off but we’ll just have to see.
> 
> I also did some research and I decided that I wanted to include some elements in the story that alluded to Oikawa’s life after the time skip (Chapter 372 in particular). I wouldn’t say that I will be spoiling anything major (?) to the Haikyuu plot if I’m being honest. (Technically, Hinata is the protagonist so…)
> 
> I am just planning on showing the process of how he became who he is after the time skip. (There really wasn’t anything that specific in the manga except this one flashback which will only be referred to.) However, I will be introducing a character that hasn’t been introduced yet. His initials are J.B. if you’ve read the manga. It just so happens that the canon events actually aligned with the plot of this story and I wanted to take advantage of that. I know not everyone reads the manga and I would like to hear your thoughts about this. Will you be comfortable with that? 
> 
> Moreover, as I alluded to in this chapter, I will be pursuing the injured! Oikawa route (yes ma’am). As far as I know, there wasn’t really any concrete confirmation in the anime that his right knee was even an injury or just support braces. But for the sake of the plot, it will be in this fic.
> 
> As you guys have probably noticed, chapters will be told in alternating POVs between the Reader and Oikawa. This really wasn’t intentional at first but I kinda just went with it, and so far it aligns with the plot. Lemme know your thoughts about it: Is it too choppy? Do the chapters connect just fine? Lemme know down below.
> 
> That’s basically it. I really wanna know how you guys find BTGC so far. Your feedback and inputs really come into play with what I write and I’m pretty much open to suggestions, corrections, and constructive criticism. (I have not taken any creative writing course in my life; although I have been reading fanfics since I was 11, so I hope that counts). I’m simply writing because I find it fun and quarantine made me pull a Shakespeare.


	5. It takes two to Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa Tooru’s sudden appearance in Kirari’s life just meant this year’s plans were different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not at how my brother thought I was doing homework when he peeped my google doc when in reality I’m writing fanfiction about an anime character.  
> 👁👄👁

“I still can’t believe I let you crash dinner.” With a heavy hand, you dropped the _yunomi_ on the drying rack. From your right, Kirari clicks her tongue at your carelessness. If not for her quick hand that caught the ceramic, it would’ve likely chipped.

“What can I say? I’m just irresistible like that.” She quips as she wiped the teacup dry with a plaid dishcloth and gently places it back on the cupboards.

Next, you moved on to rinsing a _kobachi_ which thanks to the large flow of the tap, did not take you long. This time you hand the small bowl to the redhead mindfully before stating accusingly, “You bribed me.”

Dinner ended half an hour ago; and your household being the designated host for the month of February, you were currently bestowed upon the position of tending to the aftermath of a massive dinner.

The Oikawa’s were long gone and your father along with them— claiming that he and the Oikawa patriarch had unfinished business involving political chatter and beer bellies at the house across and two houses down. Feeling like she owed you something for intruding— which she did, Kirari decided to stay back and help you do the dishes. You washed and rinsed the tableware while she dried. It was still an uneven distribution of workload but you’d take any help you can possibly muster.

Now on her tiptoes in a struggle to place the _kobachi_ back, she scoffs. “And you were more than willing to comply!” A soft grunt followed by a thud. Somehow managing to reach the highest compartment, she returns to the spot next to you and gives you a nudge on the shoulder. “Don’t go acting like a victim now, [Name]. It takes two to tango.”

Another yunomi. Your fingers wrapped around the salt and peppered ceramic before running it under the tap, ridding it of the bubbly dish soap. “But it was still weird!” You shake the teacup a few times above the sink before handing it to her. “This was the first time an outsider was invited.”

“Ouch.” The redhead aggressively grabs the mug from your tight grip. She feigns offence. “I guess I’m just an outsider now huh?” That couldn’t be any farther from the truth. If anything, she was the last person you would consider an outsider to your life.

But chopsticks were next. “Stop being dramatic.” You grab all of it at once and quickly run it through the tap. “Even Oikawa hasn’t invited any of his friends to these.”

The sound of the towel grinding against the wooden utensils made your ears perk up. “Oh. It’s that exclusive?” The redhead queries, seemingly more interested in the conversation than the seconds prior.

With a jaded exhale you confirm, “Yes.”

 _It wasn’t_ , at least not officially. Over the years, no one had really been invited to the gathering asides the immediate members of your respective families: What used to be four Oikawa's turn five with the birth of Takeru and what used to be three [Surname]’s turn two with the death of your mother. No one had ever really brought someone who wasn’t part of that list, well at least until today.

Even with the gloves that shielded your hand from the wet dishes, the coldness of the water was able to seep through the yellow rubber. With a slight tug on the faucet lever, the flow became warmer in mere seconds.

“How did your families end up being so tight-knit in the first place?” She echoes, pulling a drawer on the other side of the kitchen and placing the chopsticks back to their rightful spot.

You take your time to answer her question. In that duration, you successfully rinse out three _mame-zaras_ and two _ko-zaras_. “Well, dad was close friends with Oikawa-san back in high school. But they drifted apart when Dad went to Todai for university and Oikawa-san stayed in Miyagi.”

Kirari walks back instantly and picks up the dampened rag.“I guess they reconnected when my parents decided to move back here. Coincidentally, my parents bought a house in the same block as theirs so I guess that kickstarted everything.”

With your shoulder, you wiped a splash of water on your cheek. “These dinners have just always been there as far as I can remember.”

You take note of the growing pile of wet dishes on Kirari’s end. “So what I’m hearing is,” She pauses, rubbing the dishcloth too intently on one spot as she shoots you an incredulous look. “You’ve known Tooru-kun since you were in diapers and I only met him properly today?”

_Tooru-kun. Huh. Since when were they already on a first-name basis?_

The dried plate clunks when she stacks it on top of the other. “Thanks a lot [Name].”

A mirthless chuckle escapes your lips as you scoped the remainder of dishes left to be rinsed on the sink. Three _yunomis_ , four _kobachis_ , three _mame-zaras_ , and two _ko-zaras_. “Trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted to meet him when he was younger.”

Like any other kid, young Oikawa Tooru was immature, spoiled, and too entitled for his own good — it wasn’t a surprise that Takeru acts in a similar manner. The kid practically refused to interact with you during your dinners until you reached elementary school; and even then, he only talked to you when necessary. Your younger self could care less of his behaviour at all but you have a feeling young Takaeda Kirari certainly would have.

“But still!” Her voice came as a shrill, bouncing off the walls of the tiny kitchen space. “How come I didn’t know you two were friends until literally two weeks ago when he walked in your house while you were in the middle of dying my hair?” She was fervent, just as she was right after the brunet left that night.

About two weeks ago, Kirari was up for a root touch up and of course despite her hefty allowance, the redhead — or should you say, fake redhead, settled for your subpar hair dyeing skills over an actual hairdresser which landed her at your house at an uneventful Friday night. Coincidentally, Oikawa also dropped by that time to run his mom’s errand of delivering a basket of strawberries she bought earlier that day.

You recklessly drop a teacup once again, this time the redhead doesn’t catch it and instantly you feel her glare dart you from the side. “Family friends.” You corrected her before checking the ceramic — _it’s unharmed_ — then you add, “And you never asked.”

“Are you—“ A buzz in her back pocket causes the redhead to stammer. She thinks it’s her driver letting her know that he was outside to pick her up but instead she sees something that warranted an ear-piercing shriek.

You flinch at the noise and you shout back at her. “What?!”

“He just texted me.” Your best friend sprints back next to you and is now shaking your right arm profusely as she freaked out over an unnamed reason, she had yet to disclose. The dishcloth was now discarded to the side as she taps on the device overzealously.

Mildly irked at her actions that interfered with your dishwashing, you question again. “Who texted you?”

“My dead dad— who else?” Kirari snarked like it was the most obvious thing in the world. When you don’t respond, she groans in defeat, “Tooru-kun!”

You dropped a bowl and _this time_ it wasn’t intentional.

Unbeknownst to you, while you were occupied cleaning up the dining table earlier, the two had quickly exchanged contacts before Oikawa left with his family. The words were stuck on your throat so you hesitate when you ask, “How do you even have his—” But you stop yourself mid-question.

Takaeda Kirari had always been vibrant; but there was this sudden elated look in her eye, an extra wrinkle on her nose, a slight flutter in her eyelashes, and a pep in her words that were not there before. And she was smiling. _Smiling_.

“He’s asking if I’m free this Friday.” She gushes bashfully as her gaze stayed glued to her screen. “Holy shit, [Name]. It fucking worked. I’m a genius.”

You recovered the bowl from the bottom of the sink and you ask tentatively, “What’d you say?”

She peers up to you briefly, her eyes dubious as if to say _Seriously? You’re asking me that?_ before returning her attention back to the phone with a look of anticipation grazing her features. “Obviously, I said yes.”

You pause, the water running through the dish longer than it should’ve then you whisper, “That’s the same day you said you'd treat me.” The immediate drop in your voice was so audible it made you cringe.

Only then does Kirari finally turn to look at you properly, her wrist flipping the screen down. “Oh fuck, it slipped my mind. Shit, [Name], I already said yes to him and I don’t--”

“Kirari.” She stopped rambling at the sound of your reserved voice. You offered a lopsided grin. “It’s all good.” At the time, you only hoped it came across as genuine as you wanted to be.

“Are you s—“

You returned your gaze back to the sink in front of you. “You’re just gonna have to treat me for a whole month then.” A fabricated smirk donned your lips. You weren’t mad, certainly not over something so trivial and minor even if she did promise. Back then, the closest you could compare this feeling to was a disappointment, and even then, it was still unfitting to fully describe this sudden rush of foreign emotion.

_You just couldn’t quite put a finger on it._

She falters for a few moments before letting out an amused huff. “Like I said. It takes two to tango.”

With no warning, you outstretched your arm to her chest, shoving the newly rinsed teacup. You demanded, “Shut up and dry the dishes already.”

* * *

“Do you think giving him chocolates is enough?” You yawn. The question breezing through one ear and out the other. Whatever words being spoken at the moment coasts pass you as you ease back onto your swivel chair, slowly dozing off by the second.

“[Name]!”

Your eyelids flutter open. “What?!” You roar back meeting Kirari’s murderous glare across the phone screen. When you picked up Kirari’s video call ten minutes ago, you were not at all pleased to have your sleep get disrupted over something so frivolous.

It was the second week of March and much like everybody else, you spent the entire week pulling all-nighters to prepare for next week's final exams — the last ones of your second year. And just like everybody else, you have been looking forward all week to the weekend so that you could finally catch up on your lost hours of sleep. Yet, all it took was a familiar raucous ringtone to ruin your plans of sleeping in.

Sounding more frustrated and demanding than the first time, Kirari repeats her question as you watch her maneuver a curling iron across the pixelated screen. “Do you think the chocolates are enough for a gift?!”

The first few minutes of the call consisted of just the redhead pacing back and forth from her closet and onto the camera in nothing but her underwear to show you all the possible shirt and pants combinations she could wear for today. Still half-awake with half a functioning brain cell, you could only nod and shake your head to express your opinions. Although your efforts proved to be all in vain in the end when Kirari ultimately chooses to wear a white dress with tiny red flowers that is clearly still too thin for the chilly March weather — even if she does wear a jacket on top.

But what Kirari wants, Kirari does. You couldn’t change her mind. Now, she was currently in the middle of curling her hair — a very tedious process considering her waist-length hair.

Crossing your arms as you leaned back to the chair, you responded bluntly. “I don’t know!” A static groan is heard from the other side. You rub the remnants of sleep on your eyes and with a hoarse voice, you ask unwittingly, “I thought White Day was when boys give chocolates to girls, not the other way around?”

 _Right_. Today was also March fourteenth, or if you actually believed in the holiday, it was White Day. Quite literally a knock off version of Valentine’s, it was a special day for couples who celebrated well— being together. The only distinction you knew of between the two besides the months it was celebrated in, was that if Valentine’s Day was when men gave women gifts, White Day was the opposite.

“It is, but who gives a fuck.” You crack open an eye just to send an indignant glare to the other. Truly, there was nothing better than to start the day off with a dose of flowery language from none other than Takaeda Kirari herself.

She knows damn well you don’t approve of her perpetual swearing but, of course, the redhead ignores your reprimands and continues explaining, “I wasn’t able to give Tooru chocolates on Valentine’s Day because thanks to someone,” She pauses very suggestively, letting the curling iron mould to her tresses — her mocking tone as clear as the day outside. “We didn’t even know each other back then.” A perfect ruby ringlet emerges when she lets go.

Your eyes roll out of spite. _She’s never gonna let that go, is she?_

Your phone was positioned on top of your desk and propped against the wall — allowing the camera to capture you from the shoulders up mirroring Kirari’s as she got ready in front of her vanity. From this angle, it was absolutely comical to see the stark difference between your appearances. On the other side of the line, Kirari was perfecting every strand of hair on her head while your untamed mane remains untouched.

“So I thought why not do it today.” You let out a derisive snort. _And to think this was the same girl who laughed at the concept of celebrating romantic holidays._

Over the past three years, it was basically tradition for the two of you to visit — _impose_ on popular dating hotspots in Sendai just for the sole purpose of couple sight-seeing. Whether it be at cafes, parks, the riverside, or even just the sidewalks, it was a field day comprised of silent judging and side commentary — only if you two were feeling particularly brave.

At first, you felt impartial about the holiday but after hearing Kirari’s rants countless times on how overtly overrated, corny and sexist it was, you’ve grown to somehow agree with the redhead.

You didn’t even realize that you’ve been subconsciously looking forward to this day until she cancels on you three days ago with a mere text gushing about her upcoming date on White Day. This definitely did _not_ factor in why you were in such a sour mood for the latter half of the week. Oikawa Tooru’s sudden appearance in Kirari’s life just meant this year’s plans were different.

As a pathetic attempt to console your friend, you offer half-heartedly, “I’m sure he’ll like whatever.” But there was no need to see the sulking look on her face when she grumbles, “You’re no help.”

Rubbing your temples together, you inhale deeply before blowing a batch of hot air out your nostrils. “Why are you stressing so much about this?”

It already came as a shock to you how Kirari’s busted plan actually landed her a date with the guy but what was more surprising was how they became official barely a month after. The two hardly started dating two weeks ago and you don’t know if you're a fan of what being in a relationship is doing to your best friend.

It wasn’t even because she suddenly talks way too much of her boyfriend or that she now has to take rain checks on your plans; because all of that was understandable. _That_ , you expected. But it was the drastic changes in her attitude that didn't sit right with you.

 _Exhibit A_. Kirari was never the one to doubt herself, especially not with something as menial as gifts. If anything, she would be the first one to tell you how superficial and materialistic gifts were and that it shouldn’t matter at all in a relationship. But now, she was making a big deal over chocolates?

“Because!” She insists, dragging on the last syllable of the word. “He’s my first boyfriend, [Name]. I know that’s some corny shit and trust me I also want to throw up.” There was a downward change in her tone. “But I want to at least try doing something special you know?”

 _You don’t_. You can't begin to understand why suddenly getting a boyfriend prompted her to begin acting like a typical lovesick schoolgirl. You want to be understanding, you really do, but in every other way you think of it, this was not your best friend. Like somehow, Oikawa Tooru was able to coax out this foreign attitude out of her within just a span of a few days.

_And you don’t like it at all._

But that might just be your delusional head, courtesy of school induced stress and sleep deprivation; or at least you _hoped_ it was. So with a tired sigh, you belatedly give in. “What brand of chocolates did you get?”

You try to rack the very limited part of your brain that holds useless facts about Oikawa Tooru that you might’ve picked up on over the years of knowing him. Anything that might aid you in discerning what brand of chocolate the brunet might take to liking.

_Nothing._

Kirari takes a few seconds to answer, her nails suddenly making contact with her mouth as if she was unsure of her own answer. Eventually, she reveals with a meek, “It’s homemade.”

A snarky remark formulates immediately at the tip of your tongue and you take a deep breath just to hold yourself from ridiculing the idea of making chocolates from scratch when you could buy premade ones at every _konibi_ across the country.

_But boys do like that, don't they?_

So you move on. “What kind?”

Setting the curling iron down on the vanity, she replies tentatively. “Dark.” The look of anticipation on her face makes your stomach churn. But you ignore it and mull the thought over once again and this time, something finally comes to mind.

Sometime near the holidays — _Christmas or was it New Years?_ The two of you were barely out of kindergarten. It was during one of the dinners your families held. You still remember it quite clearly because it was the first business trip your dad took abroad. That time he brought home with him a branded handbag for your mom, a limited edition doll for you, and a box of Swiss chocolate for the neighbouring Oikawa’s — _Dark chocolate specifically._

This you recall because it was your first time trying bitter-tasting chocolate in your short life. With your very narrow palette, you immediately spat out the treat. However, unlike you, young Oikawa liked the dark chocolate. In fact, you explicitly recall watching him taking a big bite of the delicacy before plastering a delighted smile towards your father just like the people pleaser he was.

To rely on a decade-old memory of a six-year old’s taste buds to determine an eighteen-year-old’s was a long stretch, but it was all you had.

_It should be better than nothing._

“That should be fine.” You reply. A look of relief passes through her eyes and her shoulders began to relax. Why were they even tense in the first place? Kirari picks up the curling iron once again. Not knowing what to say next, you conjure with a drawl. “Now, can I please go back to sleep?”

You go on to pick up your device and are about to end the call when Kirari’s sharp voice stops you. “Wait! What lip colour should I—”

“Red.” You don’t miss a beat. “Goes well with your hair.” You add and you almost missed the way her lips tug upwards. “Besides, his favourite colour is red.” You lie. In actuality, you’d be damned if you had any idea what the Oikawa Tooru’s favourite colour was but if it meant assuring your best friend you won’t mind doing it again.

After sending you her haste _thank you’s,_ the redhead goes on rambling on about how she needed to finish getting ready and how you should probably get back to sleep before finally ending the video call. You do as she said. You went back to sleep and you _tried_ not to think what the couple planned on doing today.

* * *

“We don’t have to pretend like that Friday didn’t happen, [Name].”

You swallow dryly. _There it was._ You knew it was bound to come up one way or another. It was just a matter of who brings it up first. And Kirari being the way she is, she was the one that bit the bullet.

When she texted you that afternoon about her arrival back in Japan, it took you quite some time to process the inexplicable trepidation and obscure dread that flooded your mind when met with the idea of seeing your best friend. The thought consumed you for the rest of the night that when Ishii and Nana called it quits at ten p.m. you had hardly recall what you talked about for the last four hours.

However, it didn’t need you a lot of thinking to discern that it had something— _all_ , to do with your regretful confrontation with her ex-boyfriend.

A grimace forms on her face. “Beating around the bush had always been your strong suit but you don’t seriously think I asked us to meet just so we can talk about my vacation right?” She tilts her head, meeting your eyes.

Of _course_ she caught on. Takaeda Kirari wasn’t dumb, nor was she dense not to notice your obvious evasion and dodging of the subject like it was the plague. The two of you have been sitting at your favourite boba chain that you two used to frequent at— _used to_ , for quite some time now. And based on how your the ice on your have long melted and has been replaced by the condensation that pooled at the bottom of the cup, you have been stalling for way longer than you thought.

“We don’t have to if you’re not ready.” You manage to state calmly.

“Oh please, I’ve had plenty of time.” She pauses just briefly and declares determinedly, “I’m ready.”

Quite frankly, you don’t have a clue why you’re stalling. Nine days have passed since Kirari landed back in Japan and it’s been exactly that long since this meetup has been pushed back. She was the one who proposed this idea but for some reason, she never told you, she cancelled at the last minute and goes on to ignore you for the remainder of the week. Only last night did she finally text you back but only to confirm if you were free for brunch today.

That lengthy delay should’ve been enough. It should’ve been _enough_ , enough for you to sort your thoughts out and concoct a decent explanation as to why in the hell you cornered her ex in your genkan that day. If it ever reaches that point, which you highly doubted, you also had a simple but concise apology up in your arsenal just in case.

There was no reason for you to be spending the last half hour quite literally on the edge of your seat apprehending when she’ll drop the bomb; because there was absolutely _nothing_ she can say that you have not already run through your head countless of times over the past nine days. Every response and reaction she might have, you have already taken into account.

“Tooru apologized you know.”

Well, all except _that_.

You didn’t cough erratically or stammer dumbly at the premise of her words. In fact, you didn’t react at all — you couldn’t, for all of a sudden your brain was overridden by that sodding conversation you had with Oikawa Tooru nine days ago, recalling every minuscule detail in your mind as you have been over the days leading up to today.

“I’m sorry I cancelled on you last week. He asked if we could meet up and I don’t why I agreed to it, but I did.”

Of course, her sudden cold shoulder had _something_ to do with her ex-boyfriend.

But you only nod timidly, urging her to continue on.

“He never apologizes first.”

Your brows twitch by the fraction.

_Ignorance is bliss._

Throughout the longevity of their relationship, you've successfully stayed uninvolved — only concerning yourself with the most menial of things to avoid the mess that inherently came hand in hand with a high school relationship.

“If you think I’m prideful, you should meet the guy.” She begins picking at her right thumb — you know too well she only does this when she’s anxious.

_Ignorance is bliss._

They say clichés wouldn’t be clichés if it didn’t at least hold a grain of truth to it and they were right. Because by doing anything that wasn’t wordlessly accepting Oikawa Tooru’s sentiments that afternoon, you’ve burdened yourself with the underlying knowledge that you somehow made yourself a party to this relationship.

_Ignorance is—_

But a faint smile grazes her lips — _something different._ Something you’ve only seen a handful of times and only when she talked about _him_. “He was insufferable really. I never told you this but we would get into these petty fights before and no one would really apologize between us. We kind of just had this unspoken agreement that we’d let it go. And we do.” A weak chuckle leaves her chapped lips. “The next time we would see each other, we would kinda just pretend it didn’t happen.”

A shadow is cast on her face but it didn’t come close to the dark and solemn expression she had on. “But he apologized. That prideful asshole apologized first and I don’t know what to make of it.”

_You wanted this, right?_

_Kirari was letting you in._

_She’s unlocking the mega bolted door_

_and she’s finally letting you in._

This time, she meets your eyes and it took everything for you not to tear your gaze away. “What do I make of it?” You swallow thickly and merely whisper above the noise level,

“I don’t, I don’t know what to say.”

 _You really didn’t._ This was uncharted territory. For so long, you’ve been so intent on having Kirari open up to you that now that she was actually doing so, you had no idea where to begin. In your friendship, Kirari was the one who did all the hard-carrying. You were aware of this and so was she but that didn’t seem to bother her at all. She gave you pep talks, listened to your concerns, offered you a shoulder to cry on, wiped your tears and everything else in between. All you ever did was listen. So now that she was coming to you, you had no idea how to return the favour.

But then you think, this was Kirari. She wasn’t telling you all this because she wanted clumsily and hastily composed advice. She was unloading all these emotions to you so that you would listen because, in contrast to what her stoic features are conveying, she was suffering inside.

But just like that night she called, you didn’t say anything — _you couldn’t say anything._ You couldn’t say anything _again_.

_Ignorance is bliss, but what if by distancing yourself from her relationship with Oikawa Tooru, you’ve been unknowingly neglected your best friend?_

_What if your indifference was doing more good than bad?_

_What if you’ve unknowingly been hurting her by not being there for her all these times?_

_What if it’s not just indifference but your own selfishness?_

_What if the reason you—_

A dry chuckle snaps you out of your deep-seated trance. “Don’t look at me like that, [Name].” She jests but you could only tense right up as the sound of your name sends a shiver down your spine. As if you were an open book, she supplies right away “Don’t look at me like I’m some fragile little school girl who needs protecting.”

_She’s wrong. You weren’t looking at her like that at all._

“I’m not an obsessive ex-girlfriend like what people think I am based on one video. I want to move on.” She blinks, her eyes becoming glossy. “In fact, I will move on.” She reiterates the last line with so much conviction that it was so easy for you to believe her.

_And you do._

Then she smiles. Takaeda Kirari flashes you that smile she rarely shows. It was weak but it wasn’t forced at all. The greens of her eyes gleamed as the tip of her nose just barely wrinkles. You know she hardly smiles without restraints because she was insecure about the way it looked. You never really understood her concerns because to you it was a smile that never fails to bring a smile on your face and today was no exception.

You don’t know what prompted you to do so but you reach across the table and you grab her hand — _they were warm_. The redhead flinches and is just as confused and caught off guard at the sudden physical contact but she doesn’t let go just yet.

Kirari was not oblivious to your dislike of receiving affectionate touches and even more so to your complete ineptitude to reciprocate that same sentiment to others, including her. So for you to be pushing yourself to do this very simple act tells her everything she needed to know. When you slightly squeeze her digits as you offer her an assuring look she knows that you will support her throughout every step of the way.

And this time, you’ll try _for her._

As your faces come close together, only now, did you finally acquire the opportunity to see — _examine_ her face. Her full cheeks were hollow, her charming tan skin was pale, her thick lips chapped. But what truly alarmed you was her puffy under eyes, red rims, and dull viridian orbs.

_She had been crying._

And as if she had noticed you caught on, she clams right back up and locks that mega bolted door, shutting you out and leaving you with nothing to work with but what she purposely wanted you to know. _Nothing more nothing less._

In a blink of an eye, the warmth of her hand was replaced by the stale wind of nothingness.

The moment was done.

She had let go. It takes to two tango but only one to let go. And she lets go first.

_She always let go first._

However this time, you’re not just going to let her. This time, you’re chasing her. Because now, you know ignorance didn’t give you bliss but a poor excuse — a poor excuse to put your own comfort before hers; and that was the _farthest_ you could possibly be from blissfulness.

This time, _even_ if she lets go again, you’ll always chase her.

You just hoped you weren’t too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really just more insight into the reader’s relationship with Kirari and how it was before, during and after her relationship with Oikawa (the change is really important). I hope the jumps in between each part weren’t too confusing, I tried to explain the context right away to set the timeline.
> 
> For some reason, I really struggled to write the last part of this chapter. I’ve literally rewritten it so many times because it was so hard for me to capture their interactions post- Pool Scene. Especially because the reader still feels iffy in regards to the whole Oikawa sesh but after seeing Kirari and the damage the break up really had on her, she finally decides to do something. Not to mention, Kirari doesn’t really wanna talk about it or at least she just wants to get it out of the way without processing it properly. It was just really a lot to unravel.
> 
> I just want to state early on that Takaeda Kirari’s character is in no way the antagonist of this story and she’s no side-character either. If anything, she’s as important a character as Oikawa and the reader. She’s really crucial for everything to fall into place in the story so please give my girl some love.
> 
> Alsoooooo, we are finally going back to school in the next chapter (yessir). I’m so excited, the ball can finally start rolling. I know it’s going real slow for now and unfortunately, it will remain that way for the next 2 or 3 more chapters (it wouldn’t be a slow burn if it doesn’t amirite folks?). But I hope you guys stay patient. The tooth-rotting stuff (don't quote me on this) will come soon don't worry (but not after some angst 😌) Thank you so much for reading and I would highly enjoy hearing your thoughts in the comments!!


	6. Determination, Dedication and Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t overbearing or anything but just there— hovering and palpable. The feeling of anticipation was suddenly there and you just happened to always be _there_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the line: hello  
> no one:  
> me: how about i add a little spice to that  
> the line: _hello_

Devoid of any eye-opening epiphanies, world-rocking discoveries, and life-changing achievements, the last night of summer break arrived unceremoniously. In the same way it began, inside the walls of his bedroom, it ended.

In comparison to the past two years in which Oikawa spent the month-long vacation on a three-day and two-night stay at Nobiru Beach and a two-week backpacking trip around the country, this summer was relatively tame. Although he reckons he’s had his fill on the fun when he went home drenched in pool water only a week into summer. 

Surprisingly enough, all it took was a few exaggerated coughs and sneezes for his parents to leave him be for the first three days, keeping them in the blind about his minor injury. Closely abiding by Doctor Matsuda’s instructions, the aspiring setter spent the last two weeks of his summer confined inside his mind-numbing residence. Oikawa did not once attempt to workout or play volleyball that may apply unnecessary strain on his ankle. By extension, he also passed on the chance of hanging out with the rest of the volleyball club when they planned on hiking. Like it was his second-nature, Iwaizumi immediately pointed out the oddness of his refusal. It took a very long phone call which included a lot of whining to stop the wing-spiker from showing up at his house the next morning just to check-up on him. 

The absence of his regular productive regimen reminded the brunet of why he was so heavily reliant on it in the first place. Stuck inside with nothing to stimulate his sense, Oikawa busied himself with his phone, watched noon-time television, dabbled into cooking, finished his summer homework ahead of time, and everything he could possibly do with a sprained ankle. But alas, nothing was good enough a distraction to deviate his thoughts from hovering back to the unread text sinking further down his messages as his repetitious days dragged on. 

Oikawa knew that the likelihood of Kirari agreeing to meet up with him after what last went down between them was practically slim to none. But as much as it makes him a complete asshole, he felt entitled to a closure with his ex-girlfriend. Closure meant cutting off the strings that are holding him back; and he needed them off, quick. That was the whole point of the breakup.

Because the Spring Interhigh won't wait for him. It waits for no one. 

Just in time for him to be up and ready on his feet, it wasn’t until three days after — during one of the sleepless nights he’s been accustomed to, did he finally get a reply which arranged the meeting to the day after.

To say the least, the events that came after that day went by with no avail. Just as he preferred. With the second trimester just within a few hours of sleep, he revelled over the thought of going back. Just thinking about the premise of falling back to his regular routine had the brunet sprawled awake on his sheets experiencing what he thinks might be first-day jitters. 

He could already _smell_ the mixture of rancid sweat, feet and off-brand deodorants that gym four could never be rid of. 

He could already _feel_ the lightweight cotton fabric of his jersey against his skin and how once drenched in sweat, clung to him like a second skin. 

He could already _hear_ the loud chants of his teammates as they do their run of the mill warm-up stretches before practice. 

He could already _touch_ the tri-coloured ball, that he’s been acquainted with all these years just on the pads of his fingertips. 

But most importantly, he could already _taste_ the sweet _sweet_ victory he—No, _they_ will experience once _they_ beat Shiratorizawa this time and go to Nationals. 

No over-glorified summer escapade could possibly top that for him. 

However, victory is the fruit of hard work, and that is exactly why he was already in front of the gymnasium at five a.m. in the morning. Although based on the unlocked door, glaring fluorescent lights, and hurried footsteps inside, it seems like someone planned on doing the same. 

“Iwa-chan, what are you doing here?” Oikawa’s voice echoed through the vicinity of the empty gym making himself known to the only other person inside the large space.

Iwaizumi’s hands let go of his right foot as he looked up midway the stretch. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Stretching?” He mutters dumbly. 

Not sparing him a second glance, the wing-spiker says in between grunts. “Exactly.”  
  
“But you never—”

Iwaizumi stands up, picking up his right foot this time to stretch and balancing himself on the other. “I honestly thought you’d be here before me.” He shifts to his left. “But I guess our dear captain is starting to slack off, huh?” A challenging smirk spreads across his face. 

The captain snorts. “How did you even get in?” Oikawa makes his way towards the bleachers to set down his gear. “Only the _captain_ has the key.” He enunciates as he unzips his tracksuit jacket.

Completely unfazed, the other replies now moving on to stretch his arms. “Kyotani lost in hand-wrestling so I had him steal it from your locker as punishment and I got it duplicated.”

Baffled by the revelation, the brunet’s mouth agape. “Iwa-chan.”

“The _vice-captain_ should have a key too, don’t you think?” He intones on his title before adding, “Especially when the captain is slacking off.”

“But I—”  
  
This time Iwaizumi looks him in the eye. “Are we just gonna keep on talking or are we perfecting our quick that will have Ushiwaka bite the dust?” The wing-spiker provokingly tilts his head to the side.

Oikawa stifles a scoff. _He never backs off from a challenge._

In just a few seconds, he joins his vice-captain in stretching. Not long after, Hanamaki and Matsukawa arrived almost simultaneously, commencing the four’s unofficial practice which surprisingly enough was not coordinated at all. 

With their addition, a two by two-game was made possible between the setter-ace duo against the outside hitter-middle blocker pair. The former took the win but only by a close margin. If not for Hanamaki’s lax efforts to chase after the ball, his side of the court would’ve probably won. Oikawa makes a mental note to discuss this issue with him in the near future. Simultaneously, he also makes a note for himself to practice his receives. He’s missed quite a few. 

Despite the typical path of retirement third-year athletes usually took from their respective clubs in order to focus on studying for university applications, the four from the boy’s volleyball team did not hesitate to make it known to their homeroom advisors about their plans on staying. In fact, on the day of the Interhigh Finals, the three didn’t waste any time before letting Oikawa know that they will be sticking around and that together, they will play in the Spring Interhigh and this time they will go to Nationals.

After three years of playing in the same team, the impromptu practice was almost second nature to the four. Along with muscle memory, sheer tenacity, and absolute focus, time became irrelevant and before they knew it, they were already up for cooldown. By the time they finished cleaning and showering, it was already quarter to eight and the commencement ceremony began in less than fifteen minutes.

Still petty about this morning’s conversation, Oikawa had to battle out the extremely honorary task of locking the doors through a childish game of _Janken_. After three rounds of rock, paper, scissors, the captain ultimately takes the win with scissors over paper. To say he was overjoyed by this win was an understatement.

After double-checking the knob, Oikawa catches up to the bunch who of _course_ rudely went ahead without him. With a snarky commentary prepared on the tip of his tongue, the brunet shuffled down the hall where the three seemed to have huddled in the middle of the pathway. 

With attitude, he declares, “How nice of you all to wait for your captain—” 

But his voice shrinks when collided with another’s. Arriving at a halt behind Hanamaki and Matsuwaka, the brunet meets eyes with the guy with a jet-black undercut who, upon his intrusion, seemed to have stopped midway through his sentence. 

Within seconds, he senses the weight of the atmosphere get heavier as the stranger had his menacing gaze stuck to the brunet’s form. A disconcerting pregnant pause ensued and he took this time to quickly assess his face and immediately found some form of familiarity in his very average features. 

He just can’t seem to have a name to the face.

A strained cough puts an end to the palpable tension. More specifically, _you_ did. He was so preoccupied with the guy next to you to even notice that you were standing not a meter away from him. All it took was a stern, “Captain.” and your companion breaks off eye-contact with Oikawa and turns to you. 

At first glance, you looked completely normal— calm. But your eyes. Truly, they were the windows to the soul; and currently, your window opened to nothing but sheer apprehension and worry, as if you were seeing a fight waiting to emerge.

“We should be going ahead right?” You begin to feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you. Oikawa notices you gnaw on your cheeks. When your ‘Captain’ doesn’t react, you whisper desperately, “Kirishima-san wouldn’t want you to do this.” 

_Kirishima..._

Your last resort seemed to have worked when the raven began to shuffle on his feet and impart his hurried goodbyes. “R-Right.” The guy, whom Oikawa has yet to discern, clears his throat. “I’ll see you guys around. Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, Matsuwaka.” He sends a nod to them before pausing and meeting the brunet’s eye once again. “Oikawa.”

Wasting no more time, your lips purse to a line as your head dips in goodbye before trailing off after your companion. A few moments of silence continue before Oikawa finally breaks it with a confused, “Who was that?” 

Mattsuwaka’s unmistakable downturned deep-set eyes meet his before chuckling and walking past him. His pink-haired friend follows suit but not after giving him an aggressive pat on the shoulder. Barely out of earshot from the brunet, the two immediately broke into hushed snickers.

Completely at a loss by the two’s lack of answer, Oikawa finally turns to Iwaizumi to get in on the inside joke only he seemed to be unaware of. The wing-spiker could only shake his head in displeasure before deadpanning, “That was Kirishima’s boyfriend, dumbass.” The brunet furrows his eyebrows further and Iwaizumi practically witnesses the unoiled gears in the setter’s brain begin to move. 

Kirishima. Kirishima. Kiri— _Oh_. 

_Kirishima Rika._

With a jab on the arm, Iwaizumi reminds him of their current predicament. “Let’s go.” The spiky-haired male ushers ahead catching up with the other two. Hesitantly, Oikawa follows-- his mind somehow disturbed on why _you_ out of all people would be affiliated with his ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend. 

* * *

_Oikawa Tooru had a girlfriend who broke up with him because he was too obsessed with volleyball._

That was the gossip that plagued his first day back. From the moment he entered the _getabako_ to switch his outdoor shoes, heads were already turned and whispers followed shortly after. It was downright amusing to the brunet how people didn’t even seem to bother concealing their bad-mouthing anymore. During this morning’s ceremony, he swears that the girls standing a few rows away from him chatted even louder after he offered them a humble smile when he overheard his name getting mentioned. 

The same narrative was spread when he broke up with Rika. And if he were to be honest, they weren’t completely baseless. Admittedly enough, he did use volleyball as a sorry excuse to break up with his ex-girlfriends. 

Whether it was the whole truth, was a whole different case. 

However, that was only one version of the narrative. He’s caught wind of some blasphemous rumours of him cheating with another student and even worse, there was one going around that he slept with a teacher for better grades. It was truly perplexing how people manage to come up with such creative lies. It was infuriating yet so amusing that it made such a great distraction for himself that he can’t even get mad at them.

Like it was any of their business, there were also his fans who shamelessly consulted him about his infamous video that spread during the summer. Don't get him wrong, he’s in no way a snob. He appreciates his fans and some might even say they were fond of the constant attention. But what he absolutely cannot stand, was their snooping. Although he supposes that the poor second-year girls bore no ill intent towards him; so nonetheless he goes on to give them a reassuring smile reaffirming that he is okay and confirming that he is, in fact, single again. 

However, that was not the end of it. Through word of mouth, it appeared to be that Kirishima Rika — his other ex — has transferred midway through the school year. Moving away during your last year of high school was so unconventional that her sudden disappearance was just as talked about as Oikawa’s relationship. Not to mention, his name also gets thrown in there once in a while since they did date for the better of three months.

Still, it was only the first day; and soon enough people will latch on to something new and worth gossiping about just as they did online. He will live _The Pool Scene_ down at some point and people will forget about his affiliation with Rika; but until then, the brunet had to withstand the mocking chatter of his schoolmates and unfortunately that included his very own friends.

In comparison to Hanamaki and Matsuwaka’s taunts, Iwaizumi’s comments back at the _konbini_ were nothing. But put them all together and the three were _absolutely_ unforgiving when dropping low blows one after the other.

Like rubbing salt on the brunet’s healing pride— it doesn’t hurt as much, but it still hurts nonetheless — the three packed the whole ocean with them for lunch as Oikawa sat defencelessly and took their every tease and taunt at the face value with just as much grain of salt. 

“I literally leave him for one second!” Emphasizing his point, Hanamaki puts up his pointer finger from across him. “One second!” He reiterates garnering everyone's attention, “And I find him swimming in his jeans when I get back.” Before breaking into a belly laugh which earned the stares from people sitting in the neighbouring tables of the cafeteria. 

Despite recycling the exact same joke he’s already sent in their group chat, the other two don’t seem to care when they laugh at it all the same. Adjacent of the brunet, Matsuwaka who usually doesn’t resort to cheap jokes adds mockingly, “Captain, you really should’ve taken it off first if you wanted to go on a swim.” 

If it weren’t for these two who dragged him to that cursed house party, his life would’ve been drastically different right about now. It was a peaceful late afternoon when the brunet received a text in the fourth year’s group chat — an entirely separate one the volleyball club’s — about a random party held in one of the rich neighbourhoods of Sendai. To Oikawa, that simply translated into pretentious Shiratorizawa students and there was no way he was going near that party within a ten-foot pole. 

Yet for some reason. the duo was more convincing and conniving at that than what Oikawa gives them credit for; because by nine p.m. he found himself being dragged inside the driveway of the same party he swore not to be at. 

He didn’t have a sip of alcohol that night. Simply because he had zero intentions of getting drunk and nursing a hangover the morning after; although he regretted that decision soon afterwards. Dealing with the sheer embarrassment of getting kicked into a pool sober was his second mistake that night. The first was attempting to calm down his drunken ex-girlfriend. 

Oikawa glares latches on to the two before him and he whines, “Makki! Mattsun!” They stop momentarily to look at him. “You know that’s not what—” But he is cut off with another string of jeers. He turns to Iwaizumi for back up but the spiky-haired male dismisses him with a low chuckle as he tends to his bento.

With a pout in hopes of guilt-tripping his friends, the brunet slumps back onto his seat and accepts defeat. Playing with the remains of his half-eaten bento with his chopsticks, he diverts his attention away from the smug faces of his peers who’s inescapable berating and chiding he yields on stopping. 

Aoba Johsai’s cafeteria wasn’t at all small but it was sizable enough for Oikawa to see the four corners of the space with no difficulty. From left to right, he scatters his eyes over the sea of white blazers, noting some familiar faces before quickly moving on to another. There was really nothing that stood out of the ordinary. Some tables were eating quietly, some chatting, some laughing, and some were both. 

Eventually, his gaze lands on the exit — concluding his quick overview of the place. A sigh of indignation leaves his lips at his own failed attempt to distract himself. But just before he looks away, he hears booming laughter enter the cafeteria. In just an agile glance, Ishikawa’s curly mop of head catches his attention walking side by side a shorter blonde he has frequently seen with the other male student before — Kobe was it? From Class 3?

But what truly drew him to stare was the individual trailing closely behind the two.

This was the _fourth_ time he’s seen you today. 

The first was just this morning during the very disconcerting interaction or more fittingly, the lack thereof, he had with Rika’s boyfriend — whose name, by the way, he can’t be bothered enough to learn. Then there was this brief moment right before the commencement ceremony and you two crossed paths trying to find your respective class line. The third was one was not even half an hour ago when you exited your classroom doors the same time as him — which was right beside his and the two of you made eye contact.

Now, Oikawa wasn’t counting — not at all. However, he does find it odd. He’s sure he’s crossed paths with you more times in the past over the course of his three years in Aoba Johsai and even more so in Kitagawa Daiichi. But for some reason today, you just happen to always be there when he’s paying attention.

As if somehow he has become hyper-aware of your presence. 

It wasn’t overbearing or anything but just there— hovering and palpable. The feeling of anticipation was suddenly there and you just happened to always be _there_. 

Eyes glued to your phone with your brows drawn together and your mouth slightly downturned, you and your friends make a beeline towards the concession store. Only then do you finally tear your gaze up to turn to the two beside you and utter a few indiscernible words. Ishikawa and Kobe immediately look pleased with what you said but you only nod to them in response and quickly turn upfront to order. 

The middle-aged woman behind the counter hands you a white plastic bag which was quickly snagged away by the blonde. Together with the male, the duo sprint past you with shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. Shoving your phone to your skirt pocket, the corners of your lips slowly tug to a smug smirk. The brunet blinks and suddenly you were sprinting towards the double door exit yelling the names of your friends.

In an instant, you were gone and no one seemed to have cared— noticed, but for him. 

“There’s really no point in teasing him if he’s not paying attention.” Matsuwaka’s deep voice infiltrates the walls of his ears.

From beside him, Iwaizumi finally says with a gruff voice. “Nah, that’s just an act.” 

“He’s right.” Hanamaki quips.

Beside him, Matsuwaka takes a bite of rice from his bento before replying, “I see.”

Returning his gaze to his table, another pout donning his features, the brunet questions his friends with a dragged on whine. “Are you guys calling me a phony?” 

The three turn to look at each other first before latching their blank stares onto him. In monotonous voices, they chorus. “Yes.”

And with that, Oikawa’s attention was back to where it was supposed to be.

* * *

“Mad Dog-chan!” 

At his call, the second-year outside hitter sprints from the right towards the direction of the setter’s toss and with free rein launch off at the balls of his feet. With the full bend of his body, he snaps forward and his palms make contact with the tricoloured ball, his hand following through the clean yet very aggressive cut shot that grazes past Watari’s arm on the other side of the net. The jarring sound of his unrelenting spike cuts through the entire vicinity of gym four, stealing the amused stares of everybody.

Landing on both his feet, Oikawa immediately feels the sudden pulsating beneath the supportive brace of his right knee. 

He hisses. 

The pain used to be sporadic. If he was being extra careful, he used to go a full week without his knee aching at all. But lately, it's been recurring more times than he would like to admit. He had barely jumped to connect the ball so it doesn’t make sense for him to feel such excruciating tenderness and such a scorching sensation. Painkillers used to do the trick however he’s already gone through the whole bottle and it hasn’t even been a full month yet. The pain only keeps on getting worse and worse with each occurrence, just like they warned him.

Nevertheless, the brunet clenches his fists and sucks in a deep breath. 

_He’ll deal with this later._

Turning to the direction of the second-year and with a sheepish smile, he asks. “How was the toss Mad Dog-chan?” 

_Kyotani Kentarou_ or as the setter referred to the second-year outside hitter, Mad-Dog, was Aoba Johsai Boys Volleyball Club’s very own trump card, the ace up their sleeve, their secret weapon, their dark horse, their last gamble, and Oikawa’s last move. 

Across the other side of the court, the blond male huffs belligerently and imparts a mere “Fine.” before walking back to the end of the line where the rest of the team waited for their turn at hitting his sets. Oikawa nods loftily and turns upfront.

If this were a chess game, he would be the rook. You don’t bring them out early in the game but when the time comes and you utilize them right, they can win you the game. And that exactly was the game Oikawa was playing. 

But in brash players like Kyotani who are driven by nothing but their uncontrollable passion, there was always a catch. He was a double-edged sword, play him wrong and he’ll stab you in the heart before you can even get a scratch on your opponent. 

He was a risk but maybe that was exactly what the team needed. _With great risks comes great reward._ Who knows if that saying was true. Maybe he’s biting more than what he can chew. But he would never know for sure if he doesn’t try. 

Making eye-contact with their libero, he begins to consult. “How about you Watachi? We’re running a little bit slow on the reaction time.” He states lightly, careful not to come off as harsh as it could do more damage than good to his member’s morale.

The libero sheepishly rubs the back of his buzzed head and bows to the setter. “Sorry Captain! I’ll work on it.”

Voice soft and easy-going, Oikawa responds with a soft chuckle. “I know you will. There’s no pressure.” The sweetness of his tone battled with the sourness that is pooling at his throat. 

Lies. Complete and utter lies. Of course, there was pressure. It was already the third week of September, only a month shy of the Spring Interhigh Qualifiers. The pressure that only knows how to grow after each waking day that passes could not have been any greater on him— any of them. 

They couldn’t lose — not again. Everyone knew that, him more so. But the only thing worse than losing is losing because you succumbed to pressure; and Oikawa will not accept that. He was not about to apply incessant strain on his teammates by rattling them over something that could easily be fixed if he remains calm and addresses the problem head-on with a smile plastered across his face. _Even_ if it was fake. 

“You’re next Iwa-chan.” 

One of the team managers tosses a ball high for the setter. Oikawa shares a quick look with Iwaizumi and in swift movements, the volleyball is projected across the other side of the court. 

One fleeting eye-contact was more than enough to set up the perfect toss for the perfect spike. 

Kyotani Kentarou doesn’t need to be their Ushijima Wakatoshi. He doesn’t even need to be their Hinata Shouyo. Because in the end, the strongest six in the court will always be the strongest team and that fact will never change. Everyone in the team and he means _every single one —_ starter or not — were giving it their all. The gym has never reeked so much determination and dedication. _So much desperation._

In the same way he trusts his team completely, they do unto him blindly. Seijoh may not house extraordinary players but he can assure you, they are outstanding as a whole and that makes them capable of withstanding anything that may come their way as long as they live and breathe as a team.

* * *

Just as it has been for the entirety of September, the practice ensued as usual: rigorous and taxing. By the end of the two-hour session, everyone was burned out. Weary of any flying balls hitting his head coming from none-other than Iwaizumi, the setter doesn’t attempt to skip out on clean up anymore. He goes on to pick up the stray balls when the same spiky-heard male prevents him from doing so.

“You’re off the hook today.” Peering up to the wing-spiker, the setter eyes him incredulously at the unprecedented act of leniency.

Lips lopsided and smug, he challenges playfully. “And why would that be?” He easily palms the ball and tucks it under his arm. 

“You’re beat. Go home, ice your knee and get some sleep.” Irritation passes through Oikawa’s eyes for a split second, his lips forming into a grimace. 

_He noticed._ A dejected scoff escapes his lips. _Nothing ever does get past the guy._

“Don’t try to fight me on this. I know when you're pushing yourself.” Iwaizumi doesn’t meet Oikawa’s eyes but his concern for the other was clear as day. The wing-spiker stretches his arm and the setter pensively hands him the ball. “Someone from the Journalism Club wants to talk to you. You better be outta here after that.” And with that, Iwaizumi leaves the brunet helpless, any protests he had dying at the tips of his tongue. 

Eyes shut tightly, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white as his nails dug crescent moons across his calloused palms. A deep breath, followed by another for good measure. His eyes open and slowly he regains his cool and composure. 

With a perfected smile plastered across his face, Oikawa’s legs inadvertently started walking towards the bleachers where the audience awaited. Welcomed by the giddy smiles and cheers of his usual supporters, he goes through the process of fanservice — making sure to at least utter a word to each girl, flashing his pearly whites, and even taking some pictures as he did the day before and the day before that. 

Not quickly enough, the makeshift meet and greet finally ends. By the last girl’s departure, clean up was finished and half the team was already in the team lockers changing out of their sweaty jerseys in order to leave.

“Oikawa-senpai?”

A voice calls out to him from the second-floor balcony. Scrambling to get down, a boy with a leather brown messenger bag eventually arrives in front of the setter. Towering above him by at least a couple of inches, he meets eyes with the brown-haired underclassman who he somewhat recognizes. 

Male fans weren't something new to Oikawa but they rarely came to his practices. And they definitely do not express their admiration for the setter so outwardly. With a ninety-degree bow, his presumed fan introduces himself with a broad smile. “My name is Akiyama Akira.” 

_Maybe he’s been to their practices before?_

Leaving no time to ask, Akiyama quickly gets to his point. “I’m from the Journalism Club and I was wondering if I could borrow some of your time.”

“Right,” Oikawa mumbles under his breath. The very reason he even went over here already slipped his mind thanks to none other than the mentally draining task of fan service. “Let’s sit over there.” He leads the way towards the bleachers. Akiyama smiles again, his eyes disappearing in the process, delighted by his unfought compliancy. 

Once settled, a single seat separating the two of them, Oikawa starts off with, “So the Journalism Club…” 

Truth be told, it was the first time he has heard of such a club in Seijoh. It was clearly not a sports club, but it wasn’t entirely academic either. Was it in the same line as the Yearbook Club perhaps?

“Ah!” Akiyama scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Yes, not a lot knows of us but we do exist!” He exclaims enthusiastically. “We’re actually responsible for handling Seijoh’s newspaper and website.” He’s heard of the school website but he hasn’t visited that since his first year. But since when was there a school newspaper?

Cordially, he questions. “That seems really interesting Akiyama-chan. But how do I factor into all of this?”

At his question, the journalist begins to fiddle with his bag and dug out a small notepad and a pen. He flips it to the most recent page and briefly reads over through what Oikawa assumes is his itinerary. The other brunet bobs his head as if consuming the written information and flips it back to the cover. He meets the setter’s eyes and a determined look spreads across his face. “I want to write an article about you Oikawa-san.” 

Akiyama’s body completely turns towards him, catching the setter off guard. “All first years in the Journalism Club were given the chance to spearhead an article on the topic of their choosing. And I knew almost immediately that I wanted you to be the main feature in my topic.” 

Wouldn’t that be flattery at its finest. The setter was no stranger to being asked to feature in articles. In fact, his interview with Monthly Volleyball recently got published. 

The first-year journalist continues ardently, “You’re an incredible volleyball player. I’ve only been watching you since I started high school but you’ve managed to gain a new fan! I might even go out on a limb and say you’re a genius—”

A bitter taste manifests in his mouth and his right hand crawls down his thighs to his knee. Now wasn’t that just ironic. Him? A genius? See that was funny. He knew this kid meant it well. A compliment. A form of flattery to get on Oikawa’s good sides and agree to whatever proposal he has. But that word was just too loaded, too many strings attached to a single word that makes him see red. 

It’s been a long day. He’s had a very long day. Hell, it's been a very long six years, six years since he was met with the fact that he was not a genius. At the ripe age of twelve, he was told that even if he works his ass off like a horse and breaks every single bone in his body, there will always be people that are naturally better than him just because they were born that way. 

There were people like Ushijima Wakatoshi who knew of their natural disposition and took advantage of it. But there were also people like his sister who wasted their gift, a gift he could only dream of having. And then there were the worst kinds. The ones who don’t even know of their advantage. 

The very likes of Kageyama Tobio. 

The setter lands his dark glower onto the first year causing him to stumble on his own words. “I-If you would let me of course.” Oikawa takes a few moments to answer but ultimately he says with a pleasant smile, “I think I can make that happen.”

Unnerved by the intense eye-contact the upperclassman is upholding, Akiyama’s pupils were doing everything to avoid meetings Oikawa’s dark brown orbs. He swallows thickly before saying, “G-Great! One interview session should be enough. I would just have a few questions—.”

The setter rudely cuts the journalist off with a faux over-ecstatic, “How does Friday next week sound?” However, Akiyama doesn’t seem too bothered by it when he replies with a genuine, “That’s fantastic! We can meet at our club room.”

Oikawa offers, his eyes unmoving from the first-year journalist. “We can exchange numbers if you want so that we can stay in contact. ” The first-year takes out his phone from his pocket and hands it to the setter with both hands. He punches in his number quickly and saves his contact before handing it back to the younger to which he receives it similarly with both hands out and a boyish grin and an elated glint in his eyes.

That was it. He _has_ seen him before. Not from their practices but at your house. The day when he went over to deliver the peaches. He crossed paths with him while entering your front gate… 

“Are you on the way home now Senpai?”

Oikawa’s eye widens for a second before diverting it forwards, freeing the first year from his unrelenting gaze. The image of Iwaizumi’s worried look flashes before the brunet as his words of adjuration play in his head. Unknowingly, his hand begins to gingerly rub his right knee. Akiyama takes notice of the setter’s unnatural silence but before he can utter a word, Oikawa responds with, “No actually, I think I’ll stay for a bit and practice my serves.”

Tearing his gaze from the now empty gym, the setter stood up from his seat, feeling his knee jerk from the abrupt movement but he powers through it and he gives Akiyama a determined look. 

Talent is something you make bloom but instinct is something you polish. His talent will never mount to those of geniuses but nothing is stopping him from trying. He was not a genius, never was and never will be. And he wasn’t fine about it at all. 

But what he’s not going to do is just stand there and watch himself get left behind.

He had to work twice, thrice as hard, if he even dreamt of standing a chance against them. If he even dreamt of going against them. If a few practice serves mean that the distance between him and them shortens even by the fraction, then he is more than willing to do it.

Just a little bit _more_ wouldn’t hurt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the Spring High Qualifier Arc is always so _angsty_ with Oikawa like my mans just want to go to nationals.  
> This chapter is really just the reader slowly making herself known to Oikawa but at the same time not really (not yet at least).  
> Oikawa is in Class 6 and Reader is in Class 5. Since there are two entrances (one at the back and one at the front of the classrooms), the doors of neighbouring classrooms would be next to each other.  
> Don’t worry, Akira plays a much more important role than this (he will set up the stage for reader and Oikawa’s next conflict) This chapter was just setting his character up for it so it doesn’t seem too sudden.  
> There’s more to be revealed with the whole Rika situation which would truly give the reader insight on Oikawa whether it's good or bad we’ll see.  
> I also did the quick math on my head: if I write approximately 5k words each chapter and I plan this story to be at least 30 chapters… then that’s 150k words more or less *sweats*


	7. The Simple Life and The New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You _did _say you were going to try. And this was your way of trying. Maybe it was your futile attempt of bringing back the good old times— reliving The Simple Life while suppressing The New Normal.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for 80+ kudos and 1500+ hits🥺
> 
>  **OKAY** , you can skip ahead to the chapter now if you don’t read the manga because I might (read: will) spoil something or if you just don't want to read it. But I have some things I need to get out.
> 
> I literally bawled my eyes out as I read the last like 30 chapters in one sitting (yes I was a lazy fuck who stopped reading it midway don’t come for me okay) IT ENDED AND I FEEL SO EMPTY✨
> 
> But can we just talk about how Furudate really released the last chapter on Oikawa’s birthday and ACTUALLY had him appear in the last chapter? And not just appeared but literally made a whole entrance. He really said chapter 402 is for Oikawa stans and for Oikawa stans only! (this is a joke lmao) But I’m so happy my baby got his happy ending. THE GROWTH. THE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. HE DESERVED IT SO DAMN MUCH. Naturalizing himself and becoming a part of the Argentinian National Volleyball Team and going against literally everyone at the end was just so fitting for Oikawa’s character. It could not have ended any other way. 
> 
> And not just Oikawa but seeing ALL the characters grow into adulthood and settle into their respective lives both within and outside volleyball really resonated within me. I love Haikyuu so much and as much as it pains me to know that it ended I’m content and happy nonetheless. Now, I may or may not know what to do with my life anymore. But I suppose I could always wait for the whole thing to get animated.

_Live a simple life_. That’s what your mother always said. _Take it easy_. _Don’t push yourself too hard_. She would add.

Live a simple life, [Name]. Those were her last words to you — words of wisdom reserved for her daughter who was only minutes away from being motherless. You suppose that as much as it was her parting words, it was also her dying wish. 

Keep things simple and life would be easy.

And so simply, you willed yourself to live.

From a young age, you recognized that the very essence of leading The Simple Life was found in a sturdy routine. And for the most part, the [Surname]s surely practiced what they preached. 

As far as you knew, your father still worked at the same company with the 9-5 job he’s had since you were little — maybe a promotion and an abroad trip sprinkled here and there while your mother became a housewife for the latter part of her life after giving birth to you and pretty much played the same role until her passing. With the little saving they had, the couple moved to Miyagi and together, started a family. A home. 

Your home life was kept simple and for the most part, you didn’t mind. It was all you knew after all. Because in familiarity lies comfort. The feeling of assurance embedded within one's mind which served as a wall that guarded and defended itself against the ever so looming threat that is change.

Thus with the unexpected turn of events that transpired across August, the prospect of starting a new trimester in September — where things were granted to be your run of the mill uneventful occurrences in a controlled and predictable school setting, excited you more than a regular third-year high school student should feel.

You should be feeling all sorts of blue. Grief for the summer that went by too quickly, regret for the missed adventures you could’ve had and dread for the rest of the school year that awaits you. But you instead were relieved. No. You were assured. Assured that after a month that was leaning too far away from your normal, it was finally all behind you. 

Kirari was moving on and that meant you were moving on. Things could finally go back to the way it was — to the way before the two became entangled with one another: two completely different and separate entities in your life that should’ve never crossed paths in the first place. Takaeda Kirari can go back to being your best friend. And Oikawa Tooru could go back to being just whoever he was in your life — a passing thought.

Things could go back to normal. It was better that way. 

At the top of your head, you already had a pretty clear vision of how the next two or three months would’ve played out — how you wanted them to play out. Mondays to Fridays you would go to school from seven to four — on Tuesdays and Thursdays a little bit earlier for Journalism Club. Done we’re the days where you followed a strict MWF swimming practice regimen that began at the painful hours of 5 am; so that was sure to give you more breathing room this trimester. Your nights would be dominated more by studying and procrastinating alike. Saturdays were for resting if not for more studying and even more procrastinating. And Sundays were reserved for volunteer work. If you could insert a little bit of fun here and there that would be welcomed too.

It couldn’t have been better than that. 

It couldn’t have been simpler than that. 

However, at some point — you don’t know exactly when — the wall protecting The Simple Life begins to crumble. Or rather you begin to realize that it was not a wall to begin with but a mere smokescreen. A thick layer of smoke that although served as a barrier, did absolutely nothing to shield the ones hiding behind it. Making it so effortless for someone to just reach in and claw their way into The Simple Life you've boxed yourself into.

And to a certain extent, you were the one to blame. You had let people in your life mindlessly and to think that it wouldn’t constitute any changes was foolish of you. The Simple Life cannot simply _be_ without simple people. And you were _not_ by any means surrounded by simple people. Kirari. Ishii. Nana. Ryuzaki. Kirishima. Oikawa. 

Even Oikawa.

Because living simply implied you had control over your life. That _only you_ had agency over every single aspect of your life. But that was not the case and never will it be the case. One way or another, this was the ebb and flow of life. Human nature if you will. You had an impact over other people’s lives and they definitely had one over yours. And by that principle, one could never truly live a simple life.

Running into Ryuzaki Haruto that morning only solidified that fact.

But at least you had a good run.

Maybe if you just took the later bus that morning, or maybe if you just went somewhere else, maybe if you had just kept your mouth shut, then maybe, maybe you could’ve prolonged living The Simple Life just a little bit longer. Even just for one more day. 

Was that silly? Maybe.

But you’ve avoided meeting eye to eye with it for so long, what’s another trimester more? 

A part of you thinks that maybe if you had just said no to Kirari all those months ago then maybe you could’ve prolonged The Simple Life you had crafted for yourself. But another part of you, a more reasonable part of you knows, _knows_ that this was meant to unravel one way or another. It didn’t just happen in an instant. Or a month ago. Or a year ago. It’s been brewing way longer than that. 

Whether it was wanted, it didn't matter for it all factored into your current predicament all the same.

You stood up shuffling the pile of paper in front of you before bidding the members of the journalism club a proper bow. “And that ends today’s meeting. See you all again next Tuesday.” 

The members bow to you and to each other respectively before clearing out the room in a matter of a few seconds. You filed the printouts inside a folder, shoving it into your bag before following suit. Being the last person out of the club room, you did a quick overview of the place; the massive conference table smack dab in the middle of the room, the dull grey walls, the single window that barely let any sunlight in, the rusting filing cabinet by the door, and even the abandoned keyboard — that for some reason was kept here — tucked away in the dark corners of the room.

You let out an empty sigh before making sure to turn off the lights and shutting the door behind you.

It was something you never saw coming — anyone in the school for that matter. No one just expects a third-year high school student to transfer in the middle of the school year. Nonetheless, someone like Kirishima.

But what was more pressing to you right now than the reason behind her leave was the space that she had inadvertently left behind. More specifically, the hefty role she took upon herself earlier this school year as the Journalism Club’s Editor in Chief.

With a letter left on the conference room table, Kirishima Rika bid her farewells, formally resigning as the Editor in Chief of the club where she conceded the position to you. Yes, you. Not Sato. Not Watanabe. You. For some reason unspecified, she chose you to fill in her role and shoulder the responsibilities of an Editor in Chief. 

And taking upon or rather _being forced_ to fill in the spot Kirishima Rika left was more taxing than you had expected.

It was only your fourth week as Interim Editor in Chief and the workload could not have been any more demanding. Weekly meetings where you only previously attended and scarcely participated, was now led by you and along with this was the hard task of going through every single article pumped out by the club and making sure it was of the quality and abided by the school’s guidelines before being published.

It did not help at all that your transition to the position just happened to line up when the first-years were in the process of pursuing their solo articles leaving fewer members to deal with the usual content that the club produced. Not to mention the very obvious role that was leadership and leading a team. Unfortunately, a part of that team includes the green first-year journalists who were sometimes just too over eager for your likings in the morning.

“Senpai!” Speaking of. You exit the halls and lo and behold Akiyama Akira greets you donning his default pleasant smile. 

“Akira-kun.” You greet him back with a tight-lipped smile. “Was there anything you wanted from me?” You begin to walk. The clubrooms weren’t that far from the classrooms but the meeting had run longer than expected. You didn’t want to be late for Mrs. Hirai’s class.

You round the corner and he keeps up beside you. “What’s up?” You turn to look to face him.

“I just wanted to make sure the club room is still free for tomorrow afternoon?” 

You mull the question briefly. “As far as I know, the room should be free.”

The smile on his face widens. “Awesome. I was planning on holding my interview then.” Right. With the end of the month approaching, the first years were long past the first stage of planning and was moving forward to the next phase of writing their solo articles: interviewing their source.

The number of students in the halls increases with each step you two took. “I take it your source agreed to your proposal?”

“You could say that.” He rubs his nape sheepishly and you see a flash of something pass through his eyes. “I approached him last week and he surprisingly agreed to it.” You didn’t pry any further. As much as you wanted to express genuine excitement for your underclassmen, you just couldn’t bring yourself to do as much this morning. So you impart a mere, “I see.” 

To which you quickly follow up with something more substantial when you catch his face drop a little from your peripheral due to the lack of enthusiasm in your reply. You hesitate, “Your topic was something about sports wasn’t it?”

“The toxic culture of high school sports.” He corrects you good-naturedly. And you pause for a split second to look at him in intrigue before quickly carrying on with your feet. “That sounds really promising Akira-kun.” You state genuinely. It really was. 

You may only have been the Editor in Chief for less than a month but you were a member of the club for three years before that. It doesn’t take that much discerning to differentiate a good topic from a bad one. 

“Thank you senpai. I’ve been looking forward to writing about this topic ever since I joined the club and it’s finally happening.” Then you see it again. This time it lasted longer. A shimmer of passion. 

And in his eyes, you are able to see a semblance of a dark-haired colleague. Kirishima Rika. Then it fades to an image of a beloved friend. Takaeda Kirari. Though it didn't last long before it was just you and Akiyama Akira again. 

“Think you can get published this year?” You jest light-heartedly. The prospect of their solo articles getting published in both the website and school newspaper was the incentive established to encourage the first years into putting in their hundred percent. In your cohort, between you, Sato and Watanabe, it was Kirishima’s article who got picked to be published on the school website and newspaper. It was what probably set her up for the path of becoming Editor in Chief in her third year.

It was a shame she couldn’t finish what she started.

The corners of Akira’s lips tug up and his eyes disappear briefly when he smiles softly, “Probably not. There are so many good journalists in my year senpai.” Passionate and humble. You were almost envious. “But getting published really wasn’t my motivation in pursuing this. I’m just content that I have the opportunity to write that’s all.”

The two of you approach the foot of the stairwells and you distance yourself away from your kouhai. “I hope it goes well.” You mumble.

Hopeful, he replies with a whimsical look in his face. “Me too.” 

And you felt compelled to offer, tilting your head to the side and giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t be afraid to come to me for help, yeah?”

“I won’t.” With a toothy smile, he bows his head and the two of you separate ways. Akira staying on the first floor and you making big strides to the third.

* * *

Friday came by eventually signifying the end of another school week and as well as the near end of another month.

There were thirty days in the month of September. That’s seven-hundred twenty hours; or forty-three thousand two hundred minutes. If you were being dramatic, that was two million five hundred ninety-two thousand seconds worth of time. Time that had appeared longer than it really was all thanks to the countless events that transpired over its course. You know that phenomenon when a month feels as though it lasted way longer than it should’ve? Yeah, _that_. 

You wouldn’t say this month had been the absolute worse, it was definitely better than the month before it, but clearly it wasn’t how you would’ve preferred it to play out. 

Was this going to be The New Normal? God, you hoped not. Maybe next month will be different. Maybe next month will be kinder.

Eyes glued to your device with both thumbs rapidly abusing the screen, you attempt to complete a hard level on your phone.

Two figures loom over your desk. You don’t have to look up to know who.

“What is this? 2010? Who even plays that shit anymore?” Was the first thing that left Ishii’s lips. 

“Sue me.” You say between your gritted teeth keeping your eyes trained on to your screen. 

Okay. Maybe playing Piano Tiles was a little outdated. But it was a solid game... It was fast-paced. The very concept of the game was simple yet it was complicated. The possibilities in each level were endless. Never stagnant. Never predictable. It was distracting; and you’ve been playing it for so long. Why would you want to change that? 

From your peripheral, you see Nana taking the empty seat to your left while Ishii props himself up on your desk and elbowing your arm in the process. You click your tongue.

It was currently lunch period or more fittingly, what was left of it. After being ditched by your so-called friends when they left campus in the beginning of the period, you took to your classroom for solace and took to your phone for company while you waited for the sixth period to begin eventually.

Again, Ishii pokes your arm in an attempt to gain your attention, distracting you in the process of doing so. You turn your body to the left, keeping your phone as close to your face and elbows to your torso. But when you think you’ve gotten rid of him, his cousin ambushes you with her palms blocking the screen. “Stop—“ 

Barely fleeing from the twos annoying behaviour, you stood up and turned away from them. The song was about to end, you just need a little bit more— Ping!

“Fuck.” You grumble as a message notification pops at the top of your screen, distracting you enough to miss a tile which turned to a series of tiles enough to cost you the level.

Annoyed, you walked back to your seat where the two sat unapologetically. With a drawl, you ask, “What do y’all want from me?”

Pleased with your undivided attention, Ishii claps his hand together and he says monotonously, “We’re bored. Lunch is boring with just the two of us.”

Crossing your arms around your chest, you deadpanned. “Then you should've just stayed inside the school then.”

“But that’s no fun.” He turns to you. “It’s not our fault you’re a killjoy all of a sudden and won’t leave school grounds. You used to go with us all the time!”

Nana speaks from the side, “You've been off since we got back from break. The only time we really see each other is during lunch and you won’t even tag along. Did something happen?”

You give them a blank stare. 

_Yeah. Did anything happen?_

“First of all, I’m not a killjoy. Second, not everyone does it. And third—”

The thought dies in your mind before you can word it out.

_Things changed._

“I’m not risking getting in trouble this close to graduation over something as small and stupid as konbini runs.”

Both cousins fixate on you. Polar opposites, always disagreeing with one another but right now it felt as if they came to a mutual agreement. A mutual agreement to look at you with those caring eyes and soft features. 

But Ishii concedes before you could mention anything. “Fine. Fine! Since you’re suddenly miss goody two shoes now and can’t seem to find time to hang out with us delinquents. We’ll make time. How about after school?” He looks to his cousin for approval, she nods and then quickly turns to you. “Nana’ll pay for your food.”

Nana uncrosses her legs to slap the former's arm. “Now who said that? I never agreed—“

You quickly check your phone and quip. “Can’t.” You deflate into your seat, cutting them off and promptly crafted a reply to the new message you received before turning the device off again. 

Nana interjects too avidly. “And why the hell not?” 

“I’m tired.” 

“Liar.” They chorus. 

You were quick to put up a middle finger in response to which they only grimaced. They dropped the topic soon after when you brought up the topic of preparing for the Cultural Festival approaching with the end of September knowing that the two can go on a tangent on just about anything.

It wasn’t the whole truth. But it wasn’t the complete lie either.

With the added pressure of leading the Journalism Club, your school life was suddenly filled with responsibilities you never expected to have and alongside the run of the mill workload for a third-year high school student, there had been no idle moment in your schedule. 

So yes, you _were_ tired — both physically and mentally. The only thing that has kept you going thus far except caffeine is the prospect of meeting Kirari today.

The last time you’ve seen her was already over a month ago and this usually wouldn’t bother you — you two have gone not seeing each other for way longer than this — but it was different now. She was different now. She changed. And despite seeming normal on the texts and video calls you rarely even had, you wanted— _needed_ to physically check up on her. You know that’s what she would’ve done if she was in your position. Maybe even a lot sooner.

You weren’t content without seeing her with your own two eyes that she was okay. Today, you were finally having the chance to confirm whether that was true or not. You were hoping for the latter of course.

She had just texted you seconds ago inquiring whether the plans for tonight were still on and you replied with an eager ‘ofc’ to which she only leaves you on _Delivered_. But you’ll take anything you can get from her at this point. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

The screeching sound of the back door slamming with a little bit too much force grabs your attention from Ishii and Nana’s ongoing banter. (read: you let yourself be distracted by it). _Anything_ was better than listening to Ishii and Nana’s ongoing senseless banter.

A long face barges inside the room. With determined strides, Iwaizumi Hajime makes his way towards his seat —near the back left corner of the class, adjacent to yours from all the way across the room which was located at the very front right corner. And currently, your body was turned just at the right angle — initially to face Nana — to get a clear view of his.

But your classmate was not alone. “Iwa-chan, you’re being overdramatic!” A whiny voice followed him inside that automatically sent shivers along your spine.

Oikawa. 

When was the last time you’ve heard his voice? Let alone see him? 

The first day. Almost a full month ago.

Then suddenly, you see it. A flash of jet back hair, a set of empty eyes as empty as the drained fifty-meter pool before him, and a disheartened expression that was all but recognizable on your swim captain whose face was normally adorned with infinite cheer and joy.

Then you hear it. You hear a string of incoherent and incomprehensible words that would not have made sense if not for the unfortunate and ill-timed encounter that came shortly after. 

You weren’t avoiding him. Avoiding would be too strong of a word. Avoiding would imply that things really have changed. It would imply that he had actually permeated into your life more than you would like to admit. It would imply that this was The New Normal; you were not ready to accept that just yet.

Conscious. 

Yeah. 

Conscious. You were conscious of him. 

That, you could admit. 

Whereas your lack of encounters before occurred solely based on circumstance, lately it had been more active. More enforced than it is natural. But the school was small. The third-year class, even smaller. And you were bound to cross paths sooner or later especially when his best friend just happened to be in the same class as you.

Arms crossed with his eyes shut in annoyance? Frustration? Anger? — you can't discern yet, the shorter male dismisses his friend. “Leave me alone Oikawa.” Their voices could have easily been drowned inside the space of the classroom that was slowly filling in with students but you can’t help yourself to hear. You will yourself to listen. To eavesdrop.

“I don’t even stay that late!” Oikawa slams his palms on Iwaizumi's desk, facing the latter. His voice maintained the same tone shared between playful banter but something tells you this was not just about some petty disagreement your two friends were currently having. This was something deeper.

When Iwaizumi shuns him off, his voice loses its impish disposition and for a millisecond you hear it. “What’s so wrong with wanting to be better?” _It was desperation._

You see Kirari. Her tired and glossy eyes staring deep into yours.

**_“What do I make of it?”_ **

Then you see Ryuzaki Haruto. His empty gaze locking into your own.

**_“What did he have that I don’t?”_ **

You couldn’t see Oikawa’s face from where you were seated and maybe that was for the better because, for a split second, you saw a semblance between the three. 

And if you felt for Ryuzaki the same way with Kirari. That only implied that you had felt for _him_ too.

And that’s when you knew you’ve heard more than you should’ve. 

“Overworking yourself isn’t wanting to be better. That’s setting yourself up for failure.” Iwaizumi’s gaze hardens on Oikawa but then it falters and morphs into something softer, something more recognizable. Something familiar.

 _Ah_. You think. It wasn’t anger nor irritation. _It was concern._

* * *

“You _sure_ you don’t want to go with us?” Nana bugs you again for the third time since the two of you reconvened after class ended. “I’m fine with paying really.” She gives you a slight nudge as you walk side by side down the school gates. “I only offer to pay once in a blue moon, [Nickname]”

Just in time, Ishii arrives next to you, pacing himself to match the shorter strides of two girls next to him. You give the blonde a weak grin. “I’m sure.” 

This time, Ishii chimes in from your right. “I’ll even pay for ice cream.”

To think the day Ishii and Nana offered to buy you food actually came and you were declining. Was this part of your new normal? If so, then maybe you wouldn’t mind it as much.

With an indignant huff, you turn to the male, “Nice try. I know you’re broke.” You mock and his seriousness fades away instantly. “It was worth a shot.” He quips. The three of you share a laugh.

“But thanks though really.” You asserted, stopping a good distance away from the bus stop and the crowd of students that awaited for their ride home.

They turn to you with _that_ look again.

It was almost as if they were concerned.

It made you queasy. 

The noise level in the street gradually increased and clumps of students formed as a bus approached down the block.

“I’m just tired that’s all.” You reiterate your excuse from earlier and answered their unasked question. 

And it was almost as if you were defensive.

The bus comes to a halt a few meters away from where you three stood. It was their bus. You gave them a push on the back, one hand on each cousin and sent them towards the clump of students crowding the door. “Now scram.” 

They begin to walk. “Just know you’re missing out [Nickname]! Nana’s only generous once in a blue moon” Ishii looks over his shoulder.

“That’s what I said!” Nana exclaims. 

You chuckle heartily at your friends. Soon, the two got lost with the groups of students that lined up to get in. Not long after, they made it inside and the bus began to move forward. You gave them a wave to which they didn't notice for they were too caught up in what you can only safely assume to be another disagreement.

It’s nice to see that some things don’t change.

You feel your blazer pocket buzz. Speaking of things that did change. You were supposed to be on your way to meet Kirari at her house right now. Despite residing at the Shiratorizawa dorms for school, she made it a habit to visit her family home at least every end of the month. You don’t know as to why this was but she did. 

The two of you were touching up her roots again. It was your proposal and a very weak and pathetic one at that. Sometime about a week ago during a video call you had mentioned her exposed black roots. They weren’t that noticeable yet. It probably could go on for at least another month if you were honest but you needed an excuse. An excuse to see her. And to both your surprise and pleasure, she actually agreed.

You _did_ say you were going to try. And this was your way of trying. Maybe it was your futile attempt of bringing back the good old times— reliving The Simple Life while suppressing The New Normal.

You go to check the screen for the new message that you received but your lock screen was abruptly replaced by a black screen with a green and red button at the bottom and a number you don’t recognize plastered on the top.

Flustered, you answer the call. “Who’s this?” Your voice stern and punctuated.

“Ah. Hello. Is this [Surname]-senpai’s number?” A familiar voice. 

Impatient, you reply. “Yes. Who’s this?”

“It’s Akiyama Akira.”

Your voice softens by the fraction. “Akira-kun how did you get my—“

He doesn’t let you finish your question. “Remember how you said earlier this week that I could always come for you for help?” You don’t. It’s been a long week. Hell, you don’t even remember what you had for breakfast. Did you even have breakfast? That was beside the point. “Yes..” You say trail off unsurely, not really sure where he was getting to.

“I need your help senpai.” The grip on your phone tightens the same way your shoulders did. You didn’t say anything yet, instead, you let the underclassman fire away with his concern that he needed _you_ to help him with. 

The junior journalist must’ve spoken for a while because you see another bus approaching and another crowd forming to catch it. You take a step back and your phone buzzes again. Pulling it away slightly from your ears the notifications came so quickly after one another it gave you whiplash.

“—I really have no one else to turn to senpai.” By the time Akira finishes his sentiments. You’ve regained some of your composure back.

Swallowing the lump that unknowingly formed on your throat, you say, “That’s alright. I wouldn’t be able to call myself Editor in Chief if I don’t help my junior journalists right?”

A burst of nervous laughter erupted on the other line. He was still waiting for your confirmation.

Indifferent, you say. “I’ll do it. I’m free now anyways and it’s just a thirty-minute interview right?”

Akira stumbles on his own words unable to word out the gratitude and relief he felt at the moment. “Yes! Fifteen maximum I promise.”

“Just send me your planning sheets and the questions so I could quickly read it over and get the general context.” And you reaffirm with a steady voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” 

“Thank you so much senpai.” He drags on the ‘so’ and you don’t have to see to know that he was smiling as he spoke.

As a last-minute afterthought you inquire, “By the way who was it again you were interviewing?” Your tone was light but mild anxiety was bubbling away at your stomach with the thought of spending the next half-hour interviewing a stranger. You might be the Editor in Chief of the journalism club now but this did not translate to immediate confidence and competence to pull off a last-minute interview.

He says with ease, “He’s the captain of the volleyball team...Oikawa Tooru-senpai. Do you know him?” Your throat closed and mouth dried. The bus heading to Kirari’s house takes off, it’s run-down engines sputtering before blowing past you with smog and dust that the wind carried. 

The universe was fucking with you. It _had_ to be.

You hear a muffled voice yell from the other line followed by the clamouring noise of metal. “I really have to go, senpai. My aunt is calling me. Thank you again. I really owe you a big one.” Before you can say anything else, the dial tone beeps across the walls of your ear. 

Stoned in the ground, you stood in the middle of the sidewalk. Taking a few moments until the vehicle fumes have dispersed, you felt yourself take a deep breath. You’ve been holding it in. 

Hands dropping to the sides, you instinctively went back on to your phone and checked your recent messages.

* * *

**Today** 4:47 PM

Hey.

Please don’t hate me. 

But I have to cancel.

* * *

Your phone vibrates against your palm. It was Akira sending you the details of his interview with his source. Well now, you supposed it was _your_ interview with _your_ source. 

Taking a few moments to familiarize yourself with his topic you closed the app and began marching back towards the metal gates of Aoba Johsai High School. As your shoes padded against the wooden floor and the somehow eerie sound bounced off the empty halls, your thoughts occupied you.

Thoughts that drew back to when you still led, believed you led The Simple Life. The good old days when everything in your life was easy, when things played out the way they were supposed to, when people stayed in their respective lanes, when Kirari wasn’t avoiding you at every corner and Oikawa just doesn’t happen to be at every damn turn you make. 

The ticket to simplicity had long sailed. Or rather there had never been a ticket, nor a boat to begin with. As you neared the club room, the sound of a familiar song playing on the keyboard spilled out of the unlocked door. A wave of nostalgia hits you but it was quickly replaced by dread? Fear? Pulling the doorknob, you braced yourself before coming face to face with your new normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had like 3 versions of this chapter in my drafts (all of which were very much drastically diff from one another) because everytime I tried to write it, it just didn’t feel right🥰 I’m still not completely satisfied with this but it is what it is. 
> 
> A lot of the beginning was really just exposition into the reader's life and just a lot of monologue (it had to be done at some point sorry) Ngl, I do be struggling with reader’s characterization. Writing her chapters is way harder than Oikawa’s which I thought would’ve been the other way around. 
> 
> Not to mention the way I got like 5 different subplots going on at the same time right now chile anyways. 
> 
> I promise it will all make sense in the future (I hope). 
> 
> Comments are **always** welcomed (translate: pls comment i need validation 😔)


	8. Patience is a Luxury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being patient implied waiting, and waiting was simply the antithesis of the life he wanted for himself. The life where he had so much to prove yet so little time to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to share [this](https://vm.tiktok.com/JjDt9Aw/) TikTok I saw because I found it pretty funny lol.
> 
> But anyways, enjoy reading:))

Oikawa Tooru was not as patient as most people thought him to be.

As a child, he never stood in one spot for way too long, he didn’t slow down when walking while Iwaizumi had to tie his shoes in the sidewalk, and he absolutely dreaded waiting for his older sister to finish taking her painfully long showers in the mornings.

And for the most part, his eighteen-year-old self still succumbed to these same habits. He _still_ finds himself unable to be left alone for three minutes without wanting to do something— anything, he _still_ doesn’t wait for Iwaizumi which usually just lands him a few smacks on the back of his head from his brute of a best friend, and although his sister no longer lives in the same house, he _still_ dreads the thought of her forty five minute long showers in the morning.

In hindsight, he was _still_ the same old brat that had to have things right away and if not, essentially threw a tantrum when things didn't go his way. Obviously, now that he was a teenager bordering a young adult, the latter part of that statement was null; save the few times his limits have been tested of course — not his best moments, that's for sure. 

Because alongside the maturity that came hand in hand with growing up, he also gained wisdom — though that really would just be a prettier way of saying that he discovered that no one liked impatient brats past the age of seven and upon learning this fact, realized that things needed to change if he wanted to do well in this world.

Which truly, _was_ easier said than done. 

So Oikawa chose the next reasonable alternative: he learned to mask the ugly — to train his subconscious reactions and alter his actions to abide by the ones people preferred. 

To the one, everyone wanted and expected him to be: the personable, charming, understanding but most importantly _patient_ Oikawa Tooru. And as far as he knew, he was doing a grand job at playing the role — just as he _tries_ to do with everything he did in life. 

And maybe that’s why people just simply assume that it was okay to make him wait thirty minutes for an interview _he_ was implored to do. 

The setter checked his phone again. A sigh. Still no reply from the first-year journalist. He scoffed spitefully, elbows digging into the dark oak table and palms cupping his face as if to suppress his frustrations from spilling out at any moment. 

Oikawa was _still_ impatient as he once was; he just got better at hiding it.

Akiyama Akira was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. 4:00 was their agreed-upon time — the journalist even sent him a reminder last night. Yet somehow it was already 4:37 and his interviewer was not just running a _bit_ late like the text message he last sent the setter thirty minutes ago. 

With hasty fingers, Oikawa quickly sends the tardy journalist _another_ text. His fifth one. In a row. 

A simple ‘Yahoo ~~ Akiyama-chan! You didn’t get lost did you?’ And send. 

On any other day, Oikawa would’ve been subtler than that; or at least he would’ve tried harder to swing more left on the passive-aggressive scale in terms of his text messages. But today was not like any other day and unfortunately for the journalist, the setter’s patience had long run out two text messages ago. 

It did not come to the younger’s favour at all that Oikawa’s patience — ergo fabricated — had already been scanty, to begin with, due to the numerous times he’s had to resort to it this week. 

**“Overworking yourself isn’t wanting to be better. That’s setting yourself up for failure.”**

_Everyone_ just seemed to be testing him today. Akiyama Akira being one of them. 

God, he cannot wait to know who _else_ the world had in store for him. 

With another exasperated sigh, Oikawa subconsciously extends his legs under the conference table. Granted he’s been sitting on the same plastic chair for the past half hour, his ass was numb, feet were stiff, and knee, just barely throbbing. 

Nowadays, the lack of movement was just as harmful as its counterpart it seemed. More often than not, he would find himself seething in pain both in and outside the court and despite popping an ibuprofen just this lunch, the effects of the drug have long run out, its pain-numbing effect lasting shorter and shorter as the days went by. 

Now on his feet, the brunet stretched out the kinks and knots that unknowingly formed over the rest of his body, gritting his teeth in the process when he felt a surge of sudden scorching heat beneath his right pant leg. 

Or was it the pain that was unknowingly increasing? Maybe he needed to up the frequency that he took them or the rather, the dosage. 

_Maybe both._

Feeling only slightly relieved than before, Oikawa takes a deep breath before arriving at a definitive decision.

_Ten minutes._

He’ll give the first-year journalist ten minutes to get here; and if not, then it was sayonara. 

At this point, Oikawa could care less if the younger had a valid reason for his tardiness — treading absence. Not only was it varying degrees of a blow to his pride to be stood up by a first-year but it was also a waste of his time — precious time that might as well be used to get in more practice. 

_Although, Iwa-chan would’ve certainly disagreed._

Oikawa reloads his messages once more. Still no reply — from neither Akiyama _nor Iwaizumi._

He sighs again. He just needed to kill time for the next ten minutes.

Losing all the interest he could possibly have for people’s lives that they unapologetically flaunted on social media, the brunet decides to retire his overheating device to the confines of his pockets. 

He needed something else to do. Something that didn’t require any more effort than he already exerted just by being here but will distract him enough from the bundle of anger, frustration, boredom, and pain coursing through him at the moment — even just for the next few minutes or so. 

Taking pensive steps, he walked over to the right-hand side of the clubroom where the wall was decorated with an assortment of frames. Once close enough, he makes out photos of the Journalism Club: some group photos lined up for each school year that they served, some from team building activities, and some select few members holding certificates to which he can only assume to be some form of awards. 

It was nothing peculiar, nothing special that his eye barely misses it. Barely.

Oikawa shifts his weight on to one leg — the good one. Then he mouthed the name etched on the particular gold plated placard just below his line of sight.

**KIRISHIMA RIKA**

EDITOR IN CHIEF

Tentatively, his eyes trailed off to the picture just a few centimetres above it. A close up picture of Kirishima Rika behind a white background taken from the collarbones up. The dark-haired girl looked straight into the camera with a meek smile that barely even counts as smiling, 

_How could he forget?_ Rika is— _was_ a part of this club. 

**_“Tooru, what do you think of journalism?”_ **

_I don’t._ Was the first response that he thought of. _I don’t even remember the last time I thought of journalism or just writing in general outside the context of school._ Was the next. 

But of _course_ , he doesn’t say any of that. He was not an ass. At least not outwardly and certainly not towards his girlfriend. Plus, how could he when she was looking at him with _those_ eyes of hers? Those navy blue orbs which held embers that sparked nothing but pure love and passion for one’s craft. 

He recognizes that look. He’s seen it all too many times before as he looked in the mirror. Recently, not as much.

Diverting his full attention from the homemade bento the girl had made for him, he rests his face on his palms, tilts his head to the said and ruffles her hair with his other before endearingly saying, “I think it’s really fascinating, Rika-chan. Why don’t you tell me more?”

Does it make him an asshole to admit that he had completely forgotten about the girl right until this very moment? 

_You dated her for four months. And with her sudden disappearance, she at least deserved to be a passing thought..._

_Yeah. He was an asshole. A big one._

But not intentionally. At least not this time. 

In his defence, his mind had been completely on autopilot ever since the first week back. Everything that wasn’t his studies or volleyball had been shoved in the back burner for the past month; and that included his relationships whether that was platonic _or_ romantic, past _or_ present. 

If not for the first-year that reminded him last night, he would’ve undoubtedly missed the interview that was _supposedly_ happening right now. And in that sense, perhaps, he shouldn’t even be feeling this pissed off for being stood up because he would’ve literally done the exact same. 

But there was no point in dwelling on the what-could’ve-beens. He was the one who got stood up, not the other way around. 

Another empty sigh escapes his lips.

Feet heavy, he brushes off the thought and carries on to see the rest of the pictures that lined the walls before drably reaching the end. 

Asides that, there really wasn’t anything else to the club room. Maybe it was just his growing implicit bias against a certain first-year, but the longer he looked around, the more faults he seemed to discover in the room. 

With just a quick pan of the space, Oikawa immediately concludes that the Journalism Club got the short end of the stick in terms of receiving funding from the school board. 

He doesn’t even know how this place was considered to be a club room. Stowed away in the shadows were boxes upon boxes toppled off one another filled with whatever it was that they kept in there. The school couldn’t even afford to give the club another filing cabinet for that? He titters. 

It was essentially a storage room disguised as a club room. It was probably what? Half the size of a regular classroom? The room where they store volleyball equipment was bigger than this. And there’s like what? One window? Which by the way, was way too high up on the walls for any fresh air or sunlight to get in. There wasn’t even a shelf to hold all the stacks of books on the ground. 

Unwittingly, his feet bring him to one of the crowded corners of the room, investing himself in the tedious task of examining further into the mess that was the Journalism Club. 

From the corners of his eye, he sees a silhouette of an indistinguishable object hidden under an off-white cloth. And against his better judgement, he slowly lifts off the dirty material revealing the last possible object he expected to see.

He concludes. _Yeah. This was definitely a storage room at one point._

Dropping the cloth on the ground, the brunet blows the dust off an estranged Yamaha electric keyboard that somehow found its way inside a Journalism Club of all places 

But what he didn’t expect to do next was to spend the next couple of minutes assembling the damn thing. After eventually locating the right combinations of wires to plug into their respective sockets, he rises back to his full height before wiping the beads of sweat that inevitably emerged on his hairline. 

It was boredom. It _had_ to be. 

Rolling his sleeves to his forearms, he pressed the ON button and in an instant, the display screen lit up blue. He huffs out in amusement and genuine surprise.

With his right middle finger, he presses the nearest key, the lone note echoing throughout the empty room. 

It was a C. 

He plays it again. 

A flicker of memory flashes before his eyes followed by a wave of nostalgia. 

The brunet continues on— pressing the C twice more. He pauses for a second then he presses on the same white key again. Then he moves to the key to the left. B. Then to C. 

_Shit. That was supposed to be an A._

After rolling his shoulders back and cracking a few fingers, the brunet wills himself to try again from the very top. Playing the only song he really knew how to play on the piano, Oikawa ultimately gets lost in a trance. 

Press the middle C three times. Then wait a second before hitting it again. Descend down the scale: B, followed by A. Now, ascend: B, C, D, and play E three times. Then hit E again before descending to D then C. Ascend back up the to D, E, F, and G. Next pause again for a second—

**_“See? It wasn’t that hard was it?”_ **

The setter hears her voice as if she was right there beside him, her voice that mocked his poor piano playing skills but laced with just the right amount of pride at the decent attempt he just completed. All of which was enough for him to crack a genuine smile as she guided his fingers with her own across the white keys.

Once more, Oikawa attempted to play the ‘easy song’ — her words not his, although he really would beg to differ — while she fluidly plays the other half of the duet right next to him. But of course, that was, if playing constituted going at a tempo of 40 BPM at 106 BPM song and him messing up every other note. 

It was a given that the brunet undoubtedly lacked the basic skills to play the instrument, not to mention he definitely did not possess enough patience to learn the song in one sitting. 

Again, Oikawa Tooru was not as patient as most people thought him to be. 

It was a good thing then that Takaeda Kirari was more stubborn than he was impatient.

 _This_ was just the side effect of boredom. Yeah. Boredom. And that’s why he spent the last few minutes or so setting up this instrument and inexplicably began playing a song by memory which by the way he learned almost half a year ago. 

He was just bored. He _had_ to be. 

Just after he presses on the last key of the song — a C, the very same note it started, the setter hears the soft clicking of the doors behind him.

In an instant, his thoughts immediately winded back up to his current and more pressing predicament: The Interview. With a look of contempt hidden behind a faux pleasant smile adorning his features, the brunet spun on his heels and met the cryptic eyes of—

“[Surname].”

* * *

Patience is a virtue. 

But it was also a luxury. A luxury Oikawa Tooru, unfortunately, could not afford. 

He had goals. Aspirations. Dreams. None of which he would ever come close to achieving if he wasn’t always thinking ten steps ahead; or if he wasn’t always ready with a backup plan in case plan A goes to shit or B; or C.

For as long as he could remember, he had always been tirelessly striving towards a goal. Always having the compulsive need to improve and be better. Always seeking the validation of others to affirm himself. Because as much as he hates it, underneath all the layers of projection, Oikawa Tooru was not complacent over his abilities. Nor was he assured enough to take things easy on himself from time to time. Not even he has the comfort of taking a day off without fearing someone better coming along and taking his spot.

Only geniuses had that privilege.

Being patient implied waiting, and waiting was simply the antithesis of the life he wanted for himself. The life where he had so much to prove yet so little time to do it. So by default, Oikawa Tooru was not a patient person; because he waited for absolutely no one, not even himself.

Iwaizumi Hajime was one of the handfuls of individuals that were well aware of the setter’s disposition. Something about spending the better half of his childhood and pre-adolescent years practically glued to one another gave him easy access to the ins and outs of the setter’s mind. 

He knew the bastard like he was the back of his hand. And alongside the trivialities — likes, dislikes, favourite colour, pet peeves, etcetera — Iwaizumi was also well acquainted with the deeper, more profound side of the setter’s personality. 

Which meant that deep down, in spite of how much he would want it to be untrue, the ace knew that nothing could possibly stop the success hungry and a goal-driven boy hiding behind his make-believe mask, from taking things too far.

Not his dear best friend. And surely not even his own injury.

And there were times where the Seijoh ace benefited from his unsought knowledge about the setter. Like how they are able to fluently converse in non-verbal cues during a match. Or how when push comes to shove and the setter finds himself stuck inside his own ass, Iwaizumi is able to utilize reverse psychology to straighten him back. More often than not, it always pans out the way he intends them to. 

But every relationship was a two-way street. Iwaizumi’s antics only worked when the brunet allowed it; and to his chagrin, these were not one of those times. And when that happens, it only meant Iwaizumi needed to do damage control. And he _hated_ doing dirty work. Even more so than waking up at five am on a Saturday morning. 

“Iwa-chan.” Wide-eyed with unruly brown locks free of whatever hair product it was usually lathered in, Oikawa rubs his eyes before squinting at the former.

Closing the gate behind him, the brunet tentatively approaches the unexpected visitor. 

Notwithstanding, Iwaizumi does not say anything or budge on the spot he has been for the past twenty minutes or so. Arms crossed, with one foot resting on the rails behind him, the ace eyes the former’s attire. He internally scoffs. 

So he _was_ right. 

Peeling his left earbud, the setter shoots the ace a confused look. “Iwa-chan, what are you doing—”

“You’re going on a run.” It was more so a statement than a question. 

Caught off guard by his stoic voice and cold gaze, Oikawa stammers. “I— yes.” 

The shorter of the two sighs followed by the shaking of his head. Even under the insufficient lights, the lamp post offered, Iwaizumi can clearly make out the dark circles that were practically etched out underneath his eyes based on its prominence. 

_He must’ve been staying up late watching reruns of matches again._

The ace lets out another defeated sigh, intentionally making it audible for the setter to hear. 

Ignoring the display of attitude, the brunet shifted all his weight to his left foot before placing both hands on his hips. “Do you know what time it is?”

Stifling a yawn, Iwaizumi dismisses him with a snark right away. “Way too early, that's for sure.” 

Oikawa purses his lips, “I thought you were mad at me.”

With a quick and monotonous, “Still am.” the setter’s attempt at a proper conversation dwindles down the drain.

He tries again, “Did you finally want to talk?”

“Nope.” Iwaizumi drags on the syllable. 

Not possessing enough patience nor the energy to fake it this early in the morning, Oikawa finally raises the question. “Then _why_ , pray tell, are you here in my front yard at five am in the morning?” 

Unfazed, Iwaizumi breaks his stance to come face to face with Oikawa. “Oh you know, just to make sure you don’t fuck up your knee more while you overwork yourself.” 

_There it was._

It hasn’t even been a full day since the two had their fight. Well, if you consider the raven flat out refusing to _talk_ to the brunet after finding out that he has been going in early and staying late to train for the past month, actual fighting. Clearly, that cold shoulder act didn’t last long for him considering their current predicament.

In Oikawa’s defence, Iwaizumi had absolutely no right to tell him what to do with his own body. Did his best friend really think he didn’t know that every single time he so much as jump, he was risking the possibility of his knee buckling? Of _course,_ he does. Who wouldn’t be if one wrong move can cost him his whole volleyball career? His future? His life.

But that doesn’t mean he would let himself fall behind. If anything, having this injury just implied that he had to do more; because now, not only did he have to make up for his mediocrity but also his busted knee.

And _that_ , Iwaizumi will never understand. 

Oikawa breaks eye contact first. 

Gathering his composure, he takes a step back before beginning to stretch out his limbs and loosening up his muscles. All of which, Iwaizumi can only gawk at in confusion. 

After tightening the knots of shoelaces, the setter caps the former’s shoulder before quipping with a smug smirk. “You better keep up then grandpa.” 

Leaving no room for a response, the taller of the two sprints past the other all the while deliberately bumping shoulders during the process. 

Dumbfounded, the ace could only watch as the figure of the setter slowly became indistinguishable the farther he got down the block.

Iwaizumi Hajime was not a patient person. Point blank. Period. But this time he was. Between the two of them, someone _had_ to be. 

With a guttural groan, he slaps his cheeks with both palms — a last attempt at stirring himself out of the lethargy of sleep — before chasing off after the bane of his very existence. 

Only by pure tenacity did Iwaizumi manage to catch up to Oikawa and more surprisingly, actually keep up with him. Which was a feat in and of itself considering the setter was unforgiving the whole time, not once slowing down to take a breath or to rest his limbs. 

It wasn’t until roughly an hour later when they reached one of the highest points in the neighbourhood that overlooked the suburban landscape, that the brunet finally decided to slow down. 

Trailing right behind him, Iwaizumi watched the setter practically collapse on one of the wooden benches on the side of the road. Completely exhausted, the ace followed from behind until he laid claim on the railings which he used to stabilize his body that was coming off the adrenaline.

Chest heaving and breath panting, Iwaizumi takes one final deep breath before letting go of the metal rods and turning around to lean on them for extra support. Using the hem of his shirt, he wipes off the excessive amount of sweat that pooled on his face throughout the whole run.

“Tired already?” A ragged voice quips.

Iwaizumi gives a condescending look over to where the former was currently sprawled on top of the bench, completely drained and rendered unable to move. Then he proceeds to say in between pants. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.” 

Oikawa chuckles, leading his torso off the bench before tossing his legs to the ground and scooting over to one side. With no questions asked, Iwaizumi takes this as an invitation to sit beside the brunet; though, he makes sure to leave plenty of space between them.

For a while, no one dared to speak. There was no chirping of birds but in place, the roadside traffic and both their laboured breathings encompassed the two. Accompanying them was nothing else besides the heavy atmosphere that slowly edged the two as they watched the sunrise in silence.

The view of the neighbourhood was not pretty. Decent would even be pushing it. But something about the golden glaze of the sun intermingling with the orange and red hues of the dying leaves of the trees transforms a place from mediocre to one that is beautiful.

Peaceful.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

They speak at the same time and in the process, making eye-contact. Between the two, no one dared to look away; and just like they always do on the court, the setter-ace duo successfully communicates their sentiments without the need for words.

And for once, Iwaizumi is the one flustered. Turning away, he defers, “What is this, a shoujo manga?”

With this, Oikawa breaks into a full-on guffaw, his expression quickly dissolving from apologetic and sincerity into mirth and glee. “Iwa-chan!” His high pitched giggles overpower every sound in the desolated neighbourhood. “We were just having a moment!” 

The ace sends him a look of disgust, to which the brunet quickly follows up with snicker. However, it didn’t take long before Iwaizumi broke into a smile alongside the brunet and allowed himself to revel in the lightness of the situation.

Taking advantage of the situation, the ace asserts, “I don’t want to be the one to hinder you, Oikawa.” The brunet’s giggles die down and he takes this as a cue to expound on his point. “Trust me, I would be the last person who would want to do that. But _please_ , for the love of everything good, you’ve gotta take it easy on yourself.”

“But—”

Iwaizumi plays with his fingers. “I know! I know! You’re not a genius yadda yadda. You can’t afford to take it easy on yourself or whatever it is you like to tell yourself.” Abruptly, he turns to the former with a look that can only be described as pleading. “But just. Just promise you won’t let last time happen again.”

“I—”

“That’s all I ask.”

Oikawa swallows thickly before eventually nodding. “Alright.” With that look on his face, there was no way he could possibly deny the ace.

The late September breeze bristled against their features with a crisp gust of air that temporarily soothed their warm and sweaty bodies, but it did not compare to the relief that Iwaizumi felt at that moment. 

In due time, the conflict between the two was long forgiven and forgotten. No one says anything for a while; but this time, the silence was comfortable. Pleasant. And everything was fixed, or so Iwaizumi thought.

Just before the sky permanently leaves the state of dawn into daybreak, Oikawa calls out to the ace out of nowhere. “Iwa-chan?”

“Hmm.”

“Why do you play volleyball?” 

Thrown off by the randomness of the question, he snaps his head to the direction of the brunet and with furrowed eyebrows, he asks. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer it.” The weight of the bench shifts towards the ace registering the movement of the setter slowly inching in on him. 

A pregnant pause. Then a wave of anticipation. “Same reason why you do.”

Oikawa huffs out derisively, leaning back to the seat and unwittingly brushing shoulders with the other. “That’s funny.” He averts his gaze away.

“And why is that?” The ace feels a sudden surge of unease over the setter's line of questioning.

With a wistful simper on his face, the brunet responds. “Because I'm not quite sure why I play anymore.”

The hairs on Iwaizumi’s forearms stood and it was not because of the early autumn chill. Eyes wide and mouth ajar, he fumbles in an attempt to rationalize what was just said only to be shut down. “What do—”

Crossing his arms, the brunet begins, “Sure, I play because I’m decent at it. Because I’ve been playing it for so long, why not just go on with it right?”

“You—"

Oikawa cuts him off again. “Okay. I will admit. I play because I want to be good. No. I want to be excellent. I want to be the best setter in Japan, but is my ambition enough? Is it really enough to keep going? To keep playing until my knee gives out?” A sardonic pause. “Again?”

“Let—”

“Come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time I genuinely had fun in court—“

“Oh my god! Shut up and let me speak!” Startled by the sudden explosiveness, Oikawa adheres per the ace’s requests. Iwaizumi swallows thickly. “Where’s all this coming from again?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation with Oikawa, his pupils dilating for a split second. Placing a hand over his mouth, he answers. “Nowhere.”

Iwaizumi casts him a look of disbelief but when the brunet stands his ground, he doesn’t push any further, instead, he indulges the setter. “Do you really want me to tell you why you play?”

Oikawa blinks, urging him to go on. Looking away to the view upfront, the latter relaxes his back on the bench. “I honestly think you do know the reason.”

A wry scoff. “Wow. How helpful—”

“Shut your trap and let me finish.” And for once, he does. 

Taking a shallow breath, Iwaizumi starts, “I think you do know why; ‘cause just like you said, you want to be the best setter out there. And that kind of thinking just doesn’t develop out of boredom, Oikawa.”

The ace turns to the side and lands his intense gaze on to the setter. “You love volleyball. Deep down, under all the pressure you’ve had on your back since we were twelve, under all the goals you have set for yourself, under all the insecurities you’ve always projected, under all that bullshit. 

Another pause and Oikawa almost falters. Almost. “You play volleyball because you genuinely like playing it.”

“You wouldn’t be this driven to get better if you didn’t. It's just that sometimes, you let things get into your head. Actually no— you always let it get into that big head of yours. That stubborn, self-centred, thick-skulled, pea-sized, one-track-minded brain—“

Flustered and moderately insulted, Oikawa balked with a chuckle. “Okay! Okay! We get it!” 

Digesting the insightful response he hadn’t actually expected from the latter, the brunet’s mind immediately travels back to the day before.

From the lunch period when Iwaizumi found him out to the interview where _you_ out of all people showed up in place of the first-year journalist.

From the ace's genuine concern that was overly apparent opposed to the way your eyes zeroed in on him — such undeniable hostility and malice that contradicted every ounce of cordiality you presented on the surface.

But most importantly, from how something as trifling as your words — something that should've been insignificant to him, something that _is_ insignificant to him — was able to make him doubt himself.

To his delight, the ace didn't take long before addressing him again, simultaneously stirring the setter away from his own unwanted thoughts.

“And Oikawa...” _There it was again._

The same genuine concern that recently, the ace never misses to offer him every single day, the very same one he had given him hardly a day ago when he found out about the setter’s habits and had practically begged him to stop overworking himself. Elbows digging to his knees, the brunet turns to his best friend once again. Cautious, he asks with faux mirth lining his voice. “What now?”

Iwaizumi’s tone was baleful, threatening even, but the brunet was quick to see past through it and discern the sincerity under all of it all. “You’re not just decent. You’re a damn good player." Oikawa blinks. "Stop gaslighting and downplaying yourself all the time and maybe you’ll begin to see the fun in what we do.”

Taking in the words of affirmation from his teammate but most importantly his best friend, Oikawa was a loss for words. Iwaizumi was never this vocal about his feelings. About anything really. So it takes him a few seconds to reply with a mere ‘Okay’ but it was enough for the ace to know that his message got across. 

With a soft grin, Iwaizumi adds. “Good. Don’t you _dare_ flake out on me now Oikawa.”

Returning the smile, Oikawa snorts before his gaze softens on the former. “Who would’ve thought you were such a softie Iwa-chan?”

Face immediately scrunching into a scowl, Iwaizumi snarled. “Shut up!” 

“Want us to pinky swear and stamp— Ah. Stop hitting me! Fine! I’ll stop! I’m sorry okay? Sheesh! Let it go grandpa—” Oikawa’s senseless chuckles and Iwaizumi’s ruthless reprimands welcomed the daybreak upon Sendai. 

When things finally began to calm down and the morning officially arrived, Oikawa begins to consider that maybe, just maybe, listening to his best friend _wouldn’t hurt_ this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied y’all, this an IwaOi fanfic now🤪🤩😌. Iwa-chan coming in clutch with the pep talk, we stan! 
> 
> okay but **HEAR ME OUT**. I was gonna write the interview okay? But like, it just didn’t work out. Or I may or may not have realized I had zero knowledge about actual journalism and how interviews worked. not to mention, if I left in that part, I would **ACTUALLY**. have to craft a whole interview (the questions **AND** answers) All of which, I am sadly simply too lazy and too incompetent to write.
> 
> Moreover, I also realized that it would be too early for them to have a confrontation. Initially, I was gonna have the Reader and Oikawa have this whole passive-aggressive back and forth with both of them goading each other until one of them ends up walking out (which sounded all good and raunchy in my head until I actually began writing it).
> 
> So yeah, we’re gonna have to take the crumbs of the interview. Eat up yall! Of course, more would be revealed in the reader's POV next chapter but uh, at least the reader made Oikawa ponder on smth right? That’s progress! 😭😭😭 
> 
> Take it or leave it, people, this ain’t no democracy when I said slow burn it’s **SLOW BURN**.
> 
> Also, this ended more lightheartedly than expected. Let’s just say it’s the calm before the storm. 👁👄👁💧
> 
> If anyone cares, the song Oikawa and Kirari plays is Heart and Soul. I don’t really play the piano so if you notice the narration is weird or off, no you didn’t ❤️
> 
> But that’s about it. If you've actually read this far, I love you. Have a good day!!


	9. A Tonkatsu a week...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You _do_ remember. You remember it all too well for your own liking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or
> 
> y/n: are we about to kiss rn?
> 
> oikawa: welcome to my ted talk
> 
> this was a chunky 20 pages so buckle up I guess...

“We lost...” You mutter under your breath, your arms gradually dropping to the sides.

For a solid five seconds, you swore that the stadium was dead silent. No raucous cheering from either crowds or movement from the players below could be heard. And you were almost certain that no one even dared to breathe in the short window from when the ball dropped to the instant the referee blew the whistle which concluded the match. 

And the silence was almost deafening; until it wasn’t.

Hysterical cheers and frenzied applause boomed from all directions of the gym. The winning team huddled in overjoyed cries as they celebrated their triumphant feat while their cheering section rejoiced with just as much passion. 

It was a delightful sight, truly.

But their opponents, not so much. 

In dismal quietude, you observed the losing team as they collectively processed the outcome of the match, expressing nothing on their faces but the sheer horror of what just occurred. 

No one liked to lose. 

Not in preschool when you play hide in seek during recess. Not on a Saturday night while playing video games with strangers on the internet. Not even during a simple round of rock paper scissors. 

It was human nature. It didn’t matter how big or small the stakes were. 

In this case, it didn’t matter whether you were on the winning or the losing side of things; because everyone knows the feeling of failure. And like an instinct you never get to override, everyone knows that losing is simply something you don’t ever _ever_ want to experience.

No one liked to lose — definitely not during the last game of your high school career.

As all tournaments go, the match concluded with a sequence of formalities: both teams paid their respects to one another, to the referees and officials and finally the audience. 

It’s these kinds of moments where you get to see how truly irrelevant it was whether you were down there in the court playing or up in the bleachers watching; because it only takes one single glance at the athletes’ faces to recognize and empathize with their emotions. 

There was the exhilaration, enthusiasm, excitement and pure euphoria; but then there was also the dejection, despair, dread, and utter disappointment. 

You surmise that like everything else in life, it really just depended on where you looked.

Perspective, as they say. 

It just so happened that you were unable to tear your gaze away from watching the one person that bore the most crestfallen face in the court.

Forming a line before the school’s turquoise banner, Seijoh’s team eventually turned to face the audience; and that’s when you finally got a clear view of their faces. 

The plastic cheering megaphone on your hand produces a jarring sound when your clutch unconsciously tightens. 

Some were crying, some were trying not to cry and some looked like they wanted to cry. 

But it was all the same in your eyes. 

“Thank you very much!” The team choruses.

With no warning, you feel all the energy and spirit that was just coursing through you mere seconds ago, drain from your body and get replaced with nothing but complete despondency. 

Thankfully, you sense a figure hover from beside you, just hardly preventing you from going down the spiral. You take a sharp inhale through your nose, before applauding with all the energy you could gather left. 

Ishii’s gives you a slight nudge and with a lopsided grin, he says. “She’s gonna be fine, you know?” When you don’t reply, he eventually turns to look at you. 

Exhaling deeply, you challenge him. “Are you sure about that?”

Both your gazes avert downwards to the girl’s basketball team; more specifically, to the player wearing the number 3 jersey. To Kobe Jurina. 

To your poor friend who despite having no tears streaming down her face, was very much on the brink of breaking down. 

With a defeated sigh, he backpedals. “Okay, maybe not _right now_ right now but she will be!” He tries to convince you, but even he didn’t sound like he believed his own words.

The line ultimately breaks up and the players proceeded to gather their belongings from the bench. Only then did you finally allow yourself to fall back onto your seat. 

In due time, the gym began clearing out for the remainder of the day. And before you could rehearse whatever words of consolation you knew you had to give your friend eventually, it was already too late. 

Fresh out the shower and now clad in her school-issued tracksuit, Seijoh’s starting shooting guard finished bidding her long farewells amongst her team members and was now making big strides towards where you and Ishii currently stood — a secluded corner at the stadium’s lobby.

Panicked, you turn to the right. “What do we say?”

“Fuck if I know! Condolences?” Ishii whisper-yells.

You don’t even bother to indulge his words; instead, you state the obvious, “She’s here.”

“Shit! Shit. Act normal!”

Arriving within arm’s length before you two, Nana forces a smile. “Hey, guys.”

“Good game out there—”

“Guess you owe me that 5,000¥—“ Not even letting him finish that thought, you give Ishii a painstaking elbow to the stomach with no avail before returning your attention back to Nana in a pathetic attempt to salvage the situation.

But it was too late. 

The damage was done, sniffles were heard and the dams holding the waterworks were long broken.

Face contorting to a combination of genuine concern for Nana then to annoyance for her cousin, you click your tongue at his insensitivity. “Great job asshole.” 

Nursing his now aching torso, Ishii returns the same glare before retorting. “Better than saying ‘good game’! Like, who even says that?!”

“Literally everyone?!” 

You whip your head to his direction, prepared to give him another smack on the back of the head when you hear Nana's cries get louder.

The blonde was caught in between ugly bawling and mild choking to the point where it was borderline concerning. _Really_.

However, that could only do as much from stopping the two of you from breaking into uncontrollable giggles at the sight of your mess of a friend.

Fighting her own tears, she wipes her red face with the back of her hand before swearing in between sniffles, “Assholes…” She hiccups. “Y-Y’all aren’t supposed—” Followed by another. “—supposed to laugh.” Her breath hitches. “I fucking h-hate the both of y-you.”

Eyes forming crescents, an endearing smile forms on your face — which was a wrong move on your part because before you could protest, she encases you in a bear hug. 

At the unexpected contact, your body stiffened. 

But you can’t bring yourself to push her away. 

The blonde buried her head on the crook between your neck and shoulders — indefinitely dampening your blazer with her hot tears. 

Muffled by the material of your uniform, she comments spitefully, “I s-swear we only lost because there were l-less than fifteen people cheering us on.” 

Lifting her head up to look at you, fighting the snot dripping down her nostrils, she spits out not stuttering for a single moment. “Seriously, fuck the boy’s volleyball club for hogging all of ‘em.” 

To which of _course_ , Ishii reacts with a hacked out laugh. You, however, just shook your head in half-hearted understanding.

As far as your knowledge goes, basketball and volleyball season coincided with one another. 

Which meant both sports were currently playing for the Spring Interhigh Qualifiers taking place this last week of October.

Today was one of those days where their schedules unfortunately overlapped. Although, it was really no surprise that when given the option in between the two, the majority of the student body willingly chose to watch one over the other. 

_They_ were the powerhouse team after all.

From your right, Ishii does not hold back with his uncensored commentary resulting in Nana to more or less let go from your hug-not-really-a-hug to confront her cousin.

With a shit-eating grin, he declares, “You had four technicals and lost possession of the ball twice in the last quarter, I doubt that the audience, sorry—” Clearly, he was _not_. “—the lack thereof, had something to do with it.”

Against your better call, you let out a chuckle which you immediately suppress when you catch a glimpse of the blonde’s deepening frown right beside you. 

“I know!!” She practically barks. 

Nana’s voice is hoarse and desperate when she states, “I know that... But it’s just unfair that they got the bus and we had to use public transit! N-Not to mention they’re not even that good of a team!” Your brow twitches. “I swear if we just got as much funding as them—“ But when she catches a glimpse of Ishii’s unimpressed look and your unconvinced one, the argument ultimately dies on her throat. 

Shoulders deflating and all humour draining from her eyes, her voice cracks when she says, “I mean, we did e-everything we could do...”

Her eyes became glossy in an instant. “ _I_ did everything I could do...” You don’t miss how her knuckles turn white as she balls both hands into a tight fist. “I trained diligently, maintained a healthy diet, I even did extra practice...” 

Your eyes narrow by the fraction — mind almost drifting back to a conversation you had over a month ago — before ultimately being brought back by another aggressive sniffle from the blonde. From the corner of your eye, you notice Ishii’s features soften beside you, harbouring a guilty expression.

Swallowing thickly, she goes on to say, “I even bought an _omamori_ from the shrine thirty minutes away from home, ate a KitKat the night before because it’s supposed to be lucky for matches, and wore my lucky socks which I always do good in just in case.” She gestures to her feet before shooting right back up with a defeated expression across her face.

Yet you can’t help but grimace at her words.

See, the concept of luck had never sat right with you; which in and of itself already speaks volumes considering Japanese culture essentially thrived on it. Fortunes, symbols, omens, talismans and the likes… you’ve never really found enough value nor reason to believe in them. 

Not for your own benefit and definitely not for others’. 

Because once you see past the superficialities of it all, you begin to understand that believing in something as trifling as ‘good luck’ really just implied that you had no control over your life. 

That your own actions and decisions were more or less negligible and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things; because if you were lucky enough, things would still go your desired way. Which sounded all dandy until you were on the flip side of the coin, and luck didn’t come as easy. 

**“Good luck this season, by the way...”**

Oikawa’s heavy footsteps come to a halt right before the door at the sound of your last-second sentiments; subsequently, the momentary silence made you pause from organizing your bag to look back at him. 

And you wished you never did; because that instantaneous dirty look, he flashed you leads you to think that you might’ve just plucked his last string. 

The dark glower adorned his face for no second longer that you would’ve thought you were imagining it if not for the goosebumps that had formed on your arm over the course of that brief eye-contact you two held. 

Pivoting his head back up front, he turns the rusty knob and just before stepping foot outside, he quips with a honeyed voice, 

**“Thanks, [Name]-chan~”**

Ironically enough, you still find yourself falling victim to practicing the same lucky customs you so clearly don’t believe in; going to the shrine to get your yearly fortune, buying an _omamori_ for various events, eating _osechi ryori_ for new years, wishing people good luck… the list just goes on. 

Except they were nothing but barren actions and hollow words.

Besides, the charm of luck can only go as far as the amount of faith that you put into it. 

Placing a light hand on her shoulder, eyes inevitably softening, you say. “Hey, whether there only be fifteen or five people in the audience, it doesn’t matter.” 

“You had put up a good fight until the very end. Everyone who watched the match knows that. I know that. Ishii knows that. And you should too.” 

Still fresh in your memory, Nana’s buzzer-beater shot could’ve easily placed Seijoh one point ahead of their opponents, winning them the game just by the hair.

But a last-second victory was simply too much to ask for.

So despite being at the edge of the railings internally hoping for her shot to get in the hoop, you knew to a certain extent that it was futile. However, taking into account not only the double team she had up against but also the immense pressure she had on her shoulders during the last ten seconds of that quarter, it was a valiant effort of its own accord.

“There’s nothing we could do to change what has already happened…” Pausing, you swallow the sudden bitterness manifesting inside your mouth. “But as long as you’re proud of the way you played and you enjoyed every second of it, then it was worth all the trouble you went through over the past months.”

A pregnant pause.

The two turn to look at you then to each other then back to you.

Ishii fakes a gag. “Ew.” before breaking into mocking laughter.

In a blink of an eye, before you could comprehend what had just happened, the two were ganging up on you. Bafflement still etched in between your brows, you can only counter them with an offended scoff. 

In between giggles, Ishii manages to disparage, “That has got to be the sappiest shit you’ve ever said, [Name].”

With a chuckle, the blonde agrees with him a congested, “Uhuh.”

Not knowing where to begin, you play it safe with, “You know what?” You raise both hands in surrender. “Fuck y’all.” Another round of titters erupted. “At least I tried.”

Ishii fires again. “Well don’t do it again.”

You clear your throat. “Shut up! I—"

Shaking her head out of impish disapproval — apparently now stable enough to speak to you without breaking down — Nana cuts you off, “Optimism isn’t a good colour on you, [Name].” 

She adjusts the strap of her backpack before turning to look at you straight in the eye with her freshly red and swollen ones. 

Tone slightly more serious she argues, “And losing _isn’t_ fun.”

Voice shrinking, you hesitate before saying. “Obviously, I _know_ that. But—“ _But that’s not the point…_

With a frustrated sigh, you ultimately decide to let it be. 

Your failed attempt to consolidate Nana may have given the two a free pass to mock and jab you for the next ten minutes or so, but if that’s what it takes to stray the conversation away from today’s loss then it’s good enough.

* * *

Not bothering to announce your arrival to an empty house, you toe your school shoes off to the side before making a beeline straight towards your room. 

Dropping your backpack on the floor, you shrugged off your white blazer on the same spot and stripped yourself of the thick cream vest you hated having to wear.

Once the layers of fabric were off, you let out an exhausted groan before collapsing on your bed.

Battling the red tie around your neck for way longer than what it really should’ve taken you, you eventually got to unbutton the first three buttons of your blouse to free your neck of the unnecessary constraint.

A satisfied sigh escapes your lips.

It’s been a long day. 

Not necessarily a bad one — it rather turned out to be rather quite _okay_ despite the loss Nana suffered; but a long day nonetheless.

You didn’t even bother getting worked up when one simple task of choosing which place to eat at, only took the three of you twenty minutes of deliberation before eventually settling with the nearest ramen bar from the stadium. Which of course was then followed up by another incessant ten minutes of nitpicking the menu, only to end up getting the same order of _Onomichi_ ramen at the end. 

(Stretching both arms towards the ceiling, Nana groans, rubbing her stomach. “Ahhhh…all this crying and sappiness got me starving.” 

You shake your head at her ‘subtleness’. With a newly rejuvenated look in her eye, she proposes. “Can we puh-lease eat out.”

Ishii doesn’t miss a beat. “I'm down.”

When it takes you a second too long to respond, Nana gives you a look and with a contemptuous tone, she asks, “What’s your excuse this time?” _This time?_

Not bothering to hide the mock and sarcasm in her voice, she answers her own question. “Wait! Don’t tell me you’re feeling—” She does air quotes with her fingers. “—tired again.” 

This time her cousin steps in with a drawl. “Nah, she probably has another test that she has to study for.”

“I actually do have one in—”

“Oh please no one cares!”

Nana turns to you.“Are you coming or not?”)

You hadn’t even realized that your completely unintentional unavailability to hang out with them had become such an obvious habit until the two pointed it out today. 

And that was how you were baited—no, _guilt-tripped_ into paying for both their meals (which you still feel robbed for by the way).

Albeit, you suppose that in some varying sense, you do owe both of them something for bailing over the course of two months. Maybe not exactly in the monetary sense, but some form of compensation was due and you knew you had to fulfill it one way or another. It might not bring back nor make up for the times you have left them hanging, but knowing your friends, this was the closest thing you could do to appease them.

So now with a full belly _and_ the collective exhaustion of a school day weighing your body down, you told yourself that five minutes of destressing and plainly lying on your bed wouldn’t hurt. And that you’d eventually get to start studying for the very real Chemistry test that you actually do have tomorrow.

But of course, that was proven to be a fat lie when you drift asleep not a few moments after hitting the plush cushion.

You wouldn’t say it was the best nap you’ve had but it felt good while it lasted; and it lasted up until your front doorbell rang.

Shooting your eyes open in the pitch dark room, your first thought was: _Fuck, I fell asleep with my contacts on_. 

Grabbing your discarded phone hastily, you checked the time. 8:43 p.m. Immediately, you feel your breathing go back to normal.

Barely three minutes have passed— which was a good thing for two reasons: One, you didn’t technically fall asleep, so the damage your eyes sustained couldn’t have been that bad (because we all know how that one time during your first year ended); and two, you still had time to teach yourself organic chemistry before first period tomorrow.

Disoriented, you don't dare move from your spot until another round of doorbells ricocheted around your house, alerting you once more of the presence outside waiting to be let in. 

You let out an exhausted groan.

You know for a fact that it was not your father who one, had no reason to use the doorbell when he knew both the passcode and had a spare key. And two, it doesn’t stray from the fact that you just saw him off this morning before he left for his yearly three-day business trips to Osaka. 

So no one else comes to mind that would be ringing your doorbell at nine p.m...

Unless…

Hauling yourself from the mattress too energetically, you eventually got to you genkan all after stubbing your toe on the door frame and missing the last step on the stairs.

But it didn't matter because with excitement coursing through your veins, you answered the door with an unmistakable expectant smile.

But the corners of your mouth drop gradually to the floor when instead of seeing a head of red locks you _so_ wished to see, you see a head of brown cowlicks instead — perfectly styled down to the very last strand.

Your grip on the doorknob tightens before you fully reveal the person behind the metal. Swallowing the weird aftertaste of sleep inside your mouth, you clear your throat before greeting. 

“Hey…”

Oikawa’s gaze suspiciously lingers on your form way longer than usual before meeting your eyes. “Hey.” 

And that’s when it hit you.

Feigning indifference — because _really_ , what other viable option was there — you swiftly grabbed both sides of your collar and tried to overlap the two to cover what was left of your dignity before coughing. “What’s up?”

Although, he doesn’t seem fazed at all. You don’t know whether to be thankful or offended at his reaction — the lack of it, rather. But the brunet answers instantaneously by gesturing to his arms. “My mom thought you’d want a home-cooked meal tonight since your dad’s out of town.”

He sounded tired. _Worn out._

Careful not to drop the dish while at the same time not daring to cross the threshold of your genkan, he hands you the platter standing all the way from your front porch. 

Instantly, the warmth of the ceramic registered with the sensors of your fingers and you can’t help but wince at the heated sensation.

“It’s Tonkatsu.” He quickly supplied. Examining through the transparent lid, you hum in acknowledgement.

However, before you could even get the chance to reevaluate your words, the question had already left your mouth — too carelessly and too casually for _neither_ of you two’s comfort for that matter. 

Candidly, you peer back up to him when you ask inadvertently stopping the brunet from leaving, “For good luck, huh?”

These were one of the rare times where you really wanted to pick a bone with the Japanese language. 

_Katsu._

In one context, it simply stood for deep-fried cutlet. 

But in another, it was _to win_.

Truly, it was the best of both worlds: a hearty meal paired with the prospect of good fortune. 

You couldn’t possibly go wrong with it.

No one can.

To your defence, it was obviously a rhetorical question. But startlingly so, Oikawa responds by returning the question back to you. “You think so?” 

You blink. _No, not really. But—_

“Because _she_ did.” He continues; and it doesn’t take you another second thought to figure out who he was pertaining to.

But he doesn’t stop there. Eyes floundering to the sides as if recalling a specific memory, he reveals, “She would always tell me this one silly phrase.” He pauses, finding the right words to say. A gleam of bliss passes through his eyes before he starts again, “A tonkatsu a week...”

“...helps to keep a winning streak.” You finish for him.

Covering it up with a stiff chuckle, you follow up with a feeble, “Yeah, she told me that too.” 

You really did not intend to make it awkward, but what was _or wasn’t_ your intentions didn’t stray away from the reality that it _is_ now.

Suddenly, your fingers felt clammy against the ceramic and you find yourself rambling in a puny attempt to save your own ass. “And whenever we went out to eat, three out of five times she would always get a Tonkatsu bowl. But when I ask her why it's her favourite, she would always—“

“—deny it.”

Unsure, you nod before swallowing thickly. “Yeah, deny it...”

Either amused or perplexed — you couldn’t quite tell, maybe even a mixture of both — Oikawa lets out an airy chuckle. “But it _is_ , isn’t it? Her favourite food?”

 _Again_ , it was another rhetorical question. 

Nonetheless, you whisper a ‘Yeah’ under your breath. 

But before you could work out a way to end put an end to this strange line of topic, Oikawa goes on a tangent. And this time, you _definitely_ notice how his voice softens when he asks, “How is she?”

Yet despite his harmless question, you can’t help it but raise a brow at the premise of it all.

Profanities and obscenities left the tip of your tongue as quickly as they came and you _had to_ gnaw on the insides of your cheeks to stop yourself from saying them aloud; before ultimately responding with an emotionless, 

“She’s doing fine.”

But the words could not have felt acrider as they left your mouth. 

For in actuality, Kirari’s ongoing track record of two-word replies and absurd excuses just to avoid having to meet up with you, only says otherwise. 

Shameless, you lie through your teeth with nothing less than complete and utmost conviction; because you suppose, that in the same way you wanted to convince him, you also wanted to believe it yourself.

Not wavering for a single second, you maintain eye contact before drawing your lips into a firm line; and indefinitely, you add, “Better.”

But Oikawa breaks it off with a curt nod. In the same genuine tone, he notes, “That’s good.”

“Yeah...” You trail off. 

Not knowing how to go from there you hurriedly scourge your brain for something to clear the terse air. 

Your eyes trailed down his teal and white-clad form — the same way he did yours earlier — before going back to his face. With a somewhat cheerful tone, you settled with, “Congrats, by the way…”

Almost immediately, his eyes narrow on you — the sincerity that was once there was wiped out in an instant; and you feel your grip subconsciously tightens on the platter, before adding. “—on the win today.” 

Tongue swiping across your chapped lips, you elaborate. “The school posted about it online.” 

It was true. 

Right before the three of you left the ramen bar earlier, Nana had gone on another rant the moment Seijoh’s official twitter account posted not one, not two, and not even three, but _five_ separate tweets raving about the boy’s volleyball club’s triumphant feat against Dewaichi High School — an undeniable display of favouritism on the team; but an irrefutable win nonetheless.

Oikawa’s eyes flash you something indiscernible but it didn’t last for long before he offers you a pleasant smile. “ _Oh_. Thanks.” 

But his smile didn’t come off the same way it usually does. It was fake — _way_ more than normal that it makes you think that he was doing it on purpose...

It was _extremely_ off-putting, to say the least.

Disconcerted, you reply. “Y-yeah, no worries.” And you don’t bother to wait for his response before concluding, “Tell aunty I said thank you for the Tonkatsu and good l—“ You stop yourself. “G-Good night!” 

With full hands, you resort to nudging the door close with your foot as you always do. For the sake of pleasantries, you add with a tight-lipped grin. “I’ll enjoy the meal.” 

But he speaks up. “I’m not sure either.” 

A shot of fear courses down your spine, and in an instant the hairs on your forearms stood.

Through the small crack left ajar, the brunet stones you in your place with a humourless stare. With no warning, the air around him turns bleak and by extension the air around you, as well. 

Whatever awkwardness there was lingering between the two of you earlier became obsolete because, in place, a strong sense of aversion took over — undoubtedly alerting your fight or flight responses. 

Not following on his words, your eyes widen slowly before uncomfortably stopping the motion of your foot. But Oikawa, not even giving you the chance to reply, supplies you with a much-needed clarification. “I never got to answer your question, remember?”

_Oh._

**“And just a heads up before we start, if you do find yourself unable to answer some of the questions, don’t hesitate to let me know and I’ll move on to the next.”**

Calm and collected, you placed the recorder across the width of the conference table just as you have done numerous times before.

Peering up to your interviewee, you wait for any signs of refusal from the brunet but a few long moments pass and still, you had nothing.

Preparing to repeat yourself once more, you open your mouth when—

**“Let’s do it.”**

Not thinking much about his hesitance, you took in his consent like you would do any other and pressed the button signalling a red light on the recorder to flicker on.

 _You do remember._

You remember it _all too well_ for your own liking.

Standing on the same spot he’s been, he begins with, “Playing volleyball for the past decade of my life has been very exhausting. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally... and at some point, it has taken over my life and had long past exceeded the point of being healthy to where it had just become...”

His eyes darken in a similar way it did that night — akin to the look in his eye when he tried appeasing Kirari. Yet it was also different and you can’t help but fixate on it: an indiscernible gleam in his eye that inadvertently makes your insides churn.

“...ugly.” His voice lowers by an octave. 

**“Where do you draw the line from 'just doing enough to win' from going too far while in the middle of a game?”**

**“I don’t. In volleyball, drawing a line for yourself is probably the second easiest way to lose after forfeiting.**

**There's no such thing as doing enough to win in volleyball. Either you give it all or you lose.”**

The warmth you felt at tips of your fingers did not compare to the burning heat that was pooling on your face. “I’ve made too many sacrifices and have taken too many risks that are considered unhealthy under the notion that I was only doing what needs to be done in order to win.”

**“Can you elaborate on that?”**

**“The only lines that should exist in** **volleyball are the lines separating both sides of the court and the ones outlining it.**

**Because what boxes a player even more than those white lines are the metaphorical lines they’ve drawn for themselves.**

**Lines that which they swore they would never dare cross; whether because they’re too afraid of the consequences of what exceeding their limitations might do to them or simply because they're aware that they could never meet those expectations.”**

“And funnily enough...” A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips and it was _all_ but unnerving. “it _almost always_ never pays off.”

**“What happens when things don’t work out for you in the end?”**

**“You mean…** **_if_** **.**

 **_If_ ** **things don’t work out.”**

“At some point, in between all the rigorous training and the exhausting matches, one just begins to realize that the amount of tenacity or perseverance they exert is really just insignificant in the grand scheme of things.” 

But at this point, all you could think of were three things:

How much you wanted itto stop. For _him_ to stop.

How much you wanted to say something. _Anything_.

And how much you wanted to run. _To hide and never look back._

Oikawa scoffs spitefully. “Because at the end of the day, the team that lets the ball fall on the court loses. Absolutely nothing will ever change that.” For a moment — from the way his face muscles relax — you thought it was over. You _hoped_ it was. 

**“Oikawa-san, you’ve just spent the last five minutes going into detail about the volleyball team’s strategy that will, and I quote ‘for sure will beat that bastard, Ushiwaka’ this time.**

**But what happens if** **that strategy of yours fails?**

**What then?”**

But _he_ _still_ kept on going.

“Yet in those few times that it does go in your favour; there’s an unmatched sense of fulfillment that will remind you of the reason why you even play in the first place.”

**“Say, you _do_ advance to Nationals this year. What happens when you go against someone way stronger than this ‘Tobio-chan’ and Ushiwaka, you so clearly strive to surpass? **

**What would you do then when your capabilities have long capped off way before your ambition does? ”**

**What _else_ can keep someone like yourself to continue on going? **

**To keep on playing volleyball with no boundaries and to play like your life depended on it?**

**To keep playing volleyball like it's worth every trouble you encounter along the way?”**

“Whether that be one good serve during a setpoint, a perfect toss to the ace during a pinch, a stable receive during a long rally or a spike that claims the point — and it doesn’t matter even if it’s only worth a single digit in the scoreboard; because deep down you know that that single point is well earned and deserved.”

He pauses and this time he looks at you — like _really_ looks at you — in a way that he _knew_ he had you where he wanted you to be.

**“I think I’ve answered _enough_ questions for today.”**

Because he did.

“And those moments are when I truly enjoy playing volleyball.” 

A smirk plays on his lips, but it wasn’t smug — far from it. It was _victorious_ ; and it lasted long enough for you to notice it with no doubt. 

“And I’m still not sure if that'll be enough for me to keep going; but _for now,_ I am certain that it is.” He trails off, head slightly cocking to the side. “That fun is what keeps me playing in the same way my ambition urges me to go on. And that makes playing volleyball like my life depended on it, _all_ the much worth it.”

This is when you _should’ve_ started talking — to begin defending yourself and started justifying why you have crossed a line that day. And why you have actively avoided this conversation and shrugged it off for the past month hoping that he would do the same. 

But alas, you couldn’t.

Or rather, you won’t.

Needless to say, Oikawa didn’t say all of that because he truly wanted you to know his answer to your questions. 

No.

He did this for himself. _For his own sake._

And in a way, you were also aware that this was not a situation that demanded a push and pull. 

This was one where one had to swallow their pride for all parties involved to move on.

So you choke on yours and let him repair his.

The shuffling of his feet notifies you of his departure. Without even bothering to turn and look at you — a fucking power move if you ever see one — he indefinitely finishes off with, “And [Surname], just a heads up...” 

“I don’t really believe in luck but if you’re gonna wish someone good luck, at least try and make it seem like you mean it.” He scrapes the sole of his shoes against the gravel, creating a jarring sound that makes your ears curl. “or you can just reserve those empty words of yours for someone who actually needs it.”

And with that, he was gone.

And you were left alone with nothing but a plate of lukewarm Tonkatsu on your hands paired with a side dish of your own chewed up pride.

* * *

Oikawa was right.

He didn’t need good luck to win.

Not from you; nor from anyone for that matter. 

He didn't need luck because no talisman from the local shrine nor enough Tonkatsu to feed an army can ever change what was probably _never_ destined to be. 

Luck was not what he needed. 

But a miracle.

Though you highly doubt it'd make that much a difference in the long run anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for context: This chapter takes place on the first day of the Spring Interhigh Qualifiers. The second day is where they go against Date Tech and Karasuno. 
> 
> The long-awaited confrontation is here... yay! *sweats*
> 
> I don't know where to begin but here it goes,,,
> 
> 1\. I know I don’t have to justify it but I guess my thought process with having the reader go to Nana’s game instead (besides the fact that she literally could not give a single shit about the volleyball game) is that I still wanted to capture how she would react by putting her in a similar scenario (someone she knows loses a game) without having her watch Seijoh vs Karasuno’s match.
> 
> 2\. Also another disclaimer, I still do not know how proper interviews function and I just want to put it out there that the Reader’s passive-aggressive questions are in no way how an interviewer would've been (although I know some of them can be like that when really pursuing an answer they want). But clearly, she went off the script towards the end because of her personal issues against Oikawa. And boom! It was really just a shit show.
> 
> 3\. If I'm being honest with y’all, at this point Oikawa and reader can’t even stand each other let alone✨fall in love✨. We got a really REALLY long way to go.
> 
> 4\. Life update that no one asked for: I start school again this September and I really want to get chapter 10 uploaded before then because that’s really where shit goes down and I just want y’all to read it! but I really cannot make any promises. So I’m sorry if it takes longer to get posted😭
> 
> 5.Can ya girl just get a round of applause for that title because😳✋🏽 Like, that was such a big brain moment for me, having it make sense WHILE rhyming like damn, didn’t know my brain did that tbh. (I know it's corny but it's supposed to follow the 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away'... let me have this pls)
> 
> But that’s about it. I know I say a shit ton on my endnotes but y'all aren't really obligated to read it so imma just go ahead and continue doing it. Anyways...Thank you to everyone who's still reading my shitty story like y'all don't even know how much y'alls hits, kudos and comments mean to me😔😭❤️.


	10. Almost is never enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world has to hand it to him.
> 
> It was quite a feat to always come that close to everything you’ve wanted in life only to fall short over and over again.
> 
> Because it's _always_ an almost with him.
> 
> But almost is simply never enough. Not for himself and not for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by miss Ari’s song with the same name (though the song really has no correlation to the plot.)
> 
> Also got carried away in writing this chapter so yeah here's my 7.5k word vomit.
> 
> Please let me know what you think about it in the comments! :))

**“Oikawa Tooru?”**

A gruff and disembodied voice echoed from behind and way too quickly Oikawa’s head whipped towards the door. 

Doctor Ishido Masuhiro looked exactly like he did on the photo he had framed on his desk — maybe a couple of years older than when the lone family portrait was taken; but nonetheless, he was nothing short of what the brunet had expected a recommended doctor to look like. 

The off-white lab coat hung loosely on his mid-sized form while the navy blue scrubs he wore underneath have clearly seen better days. Years of med school, internship, residency and several more did numbers on the old man’s appearance: a hunched posture, receding hairline, all topped off with a deep frown adorning his sleep-deprived features. 

He looked like death personified himself.

And it all but helped satiate Oikawa’s nerves.

Clammy fingers clasped together, shaky brown eyes met impassive black one’s. “That’s me.”

Tone monotonous, he keeps his excuse vague.“I’m so sorry for the wait. Surgery had gone longer than expected.” Doctor Ishido didn’t say anything after that. In place, he treads his way towards his seat, holding a manila folder of what the brunet could only deduce to be his medical records. 

Shrugging the coat off onto the hanger standing just beside his desk, the man lets out an audible sigh as he sinks down his pleather swivel chair. The lone noise, grating enough for the whole Oikawa family to collectively flinch at the expense of the physician’s comfort.

Immediately busying himself with the contents of the folder, Doctor Ishido briefly spares the other three people in the room with a blank look before pushing the bridge of his glasses together as he continues to look over the printed sheets. 

Standing directly behind him, Oikawa Taishiro clears his throat — making his presence known with a deep rumble reverberating from his chest.

Appearing completely unbothered by the whole situation, he refers to them, “Parents?” with the bare minimum enthusiasm. Index finger briefly grazing the tip of his tongue for grip, the doctor uses the same finger to flip over to the next page. 

And Oikawa can’t help but narrow his eyes at the completely mundane action. It didn’t help at all that his mom was equally as uncomfortable as she sat wordlessly right beside him. 

With a keen eye, Oikawa attempted to find any cues from the doctor’s face as he read through the files. _Anything_ that would let him know the fate of his right knee after almost an hour of waiting for the physician inside his office.

But he got nothing. 

Nothing remotely negative nor positive. Nothing but complete and utter exhaustion as his eyes swept across the pages.

Perhaps that surgery _did_ go longer than what the doctor had expected.

Now offering a somehow hospitable tone — how ironic truly — he belatedly asks, “How are we feeling today?” 

Mindful of his expression and careful not to appear rude in front of the doctor, Oikawa takes a sharp inhale. 

Pleasantries were to be expected, yes. But _this_ was not it. This was small talk — a forced conversation to fill in the uncomfortable silence with the agenda of buying himself more time and possibly even distracting patients from their inescapable predicament. 

His own inescapable predicament.

But Oikawa Emiko is quick to supply the surgeon with a concise and resolute, “We’re good sensei.”

Looking over the rim of his glasses to meet the teenager in the eye, “And you?”

Mouth cotton dry, the brunet feels himself gulp down non-existent saliva before replying, “I’m feeling fine, thank you for asking.” before conjuring a tight-lipped smile.

Doctor Ishido only hummed in response and returned to his tedious task.

Inadvertently, the brunet's eyes went back to the certificates that decorated the walls hoping that maybe this time they'd work; that maybe after spending an hour familiarizing himself with every detail of the surgeon's achievements, it would finally give him that sense of comfort that they were designed to do. Yet instead, it made him more apprehensive. Afraid.

Because besides their family doctor that has been treating him all throughout his childhood, this was the first time Oikawa had ever met a surgeon. 

Let alone _potentially_ _need_ one.

After what seemed to be the longest minute of his life, he eventually shuffled them all back into one neat stack and filed them inside the folder. 

Oikawa’s gaze followed the physician’s as he linked both hands and gently placed them on top of his desk. In the process of doing so, the brunet catches sight of something else. Absentmindedly, he notes the lack of a wedding ring amidst Doctor Ishido’s wrinkled fingers. _Maybe the lack of a wife in that picture had been for a reason after all._

Although the thought was immediately forgotten when the doctor’s sterilized gaze landed on him.

_Whatever those papers said could not have been anything good._

He takes a sharp inhale, the frown lines around his mouth deepening as he reveals flatly, “Your son has what we call Patellar tendonitis.” Pausing, he clears his throat before drably going on to explain the injury that had plagued the fifteen-year-old’s life hardly forty-eight hours ago. 

Medical jargon brisked past one ear, made a brief pit stop in his mind only to quickly exit the other. Oikawa willed himself to listen — this was _his own_ knee in question here after all. He needed to understand— to _know_ what was wrong. He needs to know what it was in order to fix it. 

Whatever it was, he needed to fix it and quickly.

It was all futile, however.

Doctor Ishido’s words came off as nothing but white noise to his teenage patient — a jumble of words the brunet all understood separately yet when strung along in cohesive sentences, became completely incomprehensible. 

Not only did he lack sufficient background knowledge to keep up with the fast-paced rambling, but he was also not in the right state of mind to hear a stranger break it down to him how badly he fucked up.

Oikawa blinked. Once. Twice. 

_Jumper’s knee? Inflammation? Micro-tears?_

It was all he could pick up on and none of them made any sense nor did it sound anything remotely good.

At once, the nauseating smell of the hospital flooded his nostrils, his skin felt tepid as the radiator released another batch of warm air that was no way needed amidst the humid weather outside; and finally, his eyes pricked from the fluorescent lights that all of a sudden appeared way too bright.

Yet it was his right knee that felt the most sensitive out of all.

Seconds ago, Oikawa was _certain_ that it had been perfectly fine — as fine as an injured knee could get. Yet suddenly, it felt uncomfortable under the temporary brace it was encased in. 

It was tight and burning all at the wrong spots. 

It was foreign yet familiar all at the same time — a newly discovered sensation that he’d been refusing to acknowledge but had been an ever so present feeling over the past few months. He’s felt this type of pain before; way before two days ago when the incident happened which landed him exactly where he is right now.

It was like a small fire starting in the middle of the forest just waiting for a blow of wind that will turn it into a wildfire overnight — silently killing everything in its proximity and once discovered, was already too late to stop.

_Was that it? Was he too late? Did he do this to himself after all?_

Left hand gripping the armchair, his dominant other began crawling down to it. A subconscious reaction; as if cupping it with his palms would somehow amend the scorching pain.

However, just before he reaches the spot, a soft yet cool hand beats him to it — his mother’s — followed by the landing of a strong grip just on his right shoulder: his father’s.

Neither of his parents turned to look at him, instead, they kept a straight face as they listened diligently to the doctor’s explanation. No emotions displayed on their face, nothing. 

And at that moment, that’s when he realized: this was no time to flounder.

Equal parts eager and desperate, his eyes met Doctor Ishido’s as he neglected all social cues and rudely interrupted him in the middle of what is supposed to be his official diagnosis. Finally raising the one question that has still yet left to be answered, he all but gasped for air, “Can I still play volleyball?”

He was well aware that what he just did was considered rude but he had to know now or he would snap right there and then. 

And no one would’ve wanted that.

For the first time since he entered, the physician flashes something other than complete apathy and exhaustion across his face. The permanent folds around his eyes scrunch before he completely takes his reading glasses off to look the teenager straight in the eye.

“How long have you been playing, young man?”

Full of anticipation, Oikawa felt as though a vein popped inside his eye sockets at the sound of the unsought for question in place of a swift Yes or No answer.

Full of hesitation he replies with a pitchy voice. “Since I was eight.”

_Did the length he played factored somehow into it?_

_Was it his own fault after all?_

Doctor Ishido grumbles something incomprehensible under his breath; and Oikawa felt the pain in his knee intensify.

“And the position you play?”

“S-Setter.”

The elder hums, right hand tapping the desk with a fountain pen — each painstaking tap on the glass shaving decades off the teenager’s patience.

 _How was_ **_any_ ** _of this relevant?_

It was a quick yes or no question. Whether it was a yes: he could still play the sport or no: he spends the remainder of his life wallowing in regret at the fact that his volleyball career peaked at the age of fifteen. 

_Why was it so hard for him to answer such a simple—_

“Well…” A quaint smile forms on the doctor's lips as he imparts the words. “I assure you setter-san, it’ll take more than this to stop a completely healthy teenager from playing volleyball.”

Oikawa blinks. Once. Twice.

 _Thrice_.

His mother’s grip squeezes his thigh just barely as if saying ‘You hear that? Everything is going to be just fine.’

A mirthful chuckle escapes the doctor’s lips. “It’s actually pretty common for athletes like yourself.” He continues, “It just so happens that you contracted it earlier than most.”

Before he could ask, the doctor follows up, “It’s not necessarily a bad thing.” But he goes on to say, “Though it _could_ be.” Oikawa’s breath hitches again. 

This time Doctor Ishido’s gaze adverts up to his father, then to down his mother, “But if we keep a keen eye on his knee and have him undergo all the proper recovery steps, it will deter his knee from possibly deteriorating than it already has.”

Mildly optimistic words not registering fast enough in his pounding head, Oikawa goes on to ask urgently, “What does that mean?”

Sighing good-naturedly, Doctor Ishido spells it out, affirming the teens' immediate concerns. 

**“Well, it means that best-case scenario, you can continue playing volleyball as if nothing ever happened.”**

* * *

But it _did_ happen. ****

It happened; and the promising words of a best-case scenario followed through what it had been all along: nothing but sheer optimism and false hope. Optimism that easily diluted into the pool of reality he had to face sooner than later; and hope that got lost in an ocean filled with maybe’s. ****

Sure he went back to playing volleyball just fine — equipped with some extra precaution — but nonetheless, just like Doctor Ishido said, he continued to play volleyball as if nothing ever happened. ****

Or so he led people to believe. ****

The first month had probably been the hardest — more mentally draining than it was actually physically straining. It was when Oikawa started stacking up on his research. Every possible article there was about Patellar tendonitis there was online, he had probably read it. Every morsel of new information did not go past him. ****

And at some point, there was no day where the thought of his injury did not torment his mind and keep him up at night. ****

To put it simply he became obsessed. Though in hindsight, paranoid might’ve been a better word to describe it. ****

And pair paranoia with the pressure and stress of the Spring Intermiddle and you got a recipe for an absolute mental breakdown waiting to implode. ****

Undoubtedly, Kageyama Tobio had been the catalyst for that explosion. If not for Iwaizumi who swooped in at the very last second, then the first year might’ve even been at the very frontline of that disaster. ****

From then, he learned to control it. Or at least dial it down. He had to.

But that didn't change the fact that every minor sprain or extension he contracted following his diagnosis had been nothing less than a nail to his coffin.

Every endeavour only inching closer and closer until it finally locks him inside in the casket. ****

Chasing after that ball _might’ve_ just been the nail that lowered him down to his grave completely. ****

Black Chelsea boots clacked against the tiled hallway as the elder Oikawa sibling returned billowing a scalding cup of hospital coffee in her hands.

 ****It was black — no dash of creamer nor a single grain of sugar or anything, but just plain old caffeine and dopamine in a ready-to-go cup — just the way ****she’s liked it since she started drinking in middle school. ****

Mouth hovering over the rim of the paper cup, she takes her spot on the opposite wall, directly in front of her brother. Crossing her legs, she asks languidly, chin jutting slightly towards her left. “Mom still in there?” ****

The robust aroma of the instant coffee wafted across the hallway — the strong scent immediately intermingling with the staple chemical stench of the hospital floor making Oikawa all but puke right there and then. ****

“Yup.” He tries not to choke. ****

His sister takes a small sip but laying off the coffee soon after her tongue touches the still-too-hot-to-drink liquid, “And dad?” ****

Eyes trained to the ground, he supplies just as quickly. “Went ahead to start the car.” ****

She hums and no one says anything after that. ****

An uncomfortable silence ensued once again. The same one during the car ride on the way here and the one that choked all four of them as they waited for Doctor Ishido’s arrival inside his office once again. ****

Yet still, the very same one Oikawa loathed with a burning passion and avoided at all cost. ****

Elbows digging on to his thigh, the younger cracks his fingers instinctively before looking up to meet his sister’s aloof gaze. “You didn’t _have_ to be here today, you know?” ****

Emeru takes a leisurely sip before imparting a mere, “I know.” She swirls the brown cup before adding softly, “But I wanted to be.” She stops herself from saying anything more but nonetheless Oikawa heard the end of that sentence all the same. ****

 _I wanted to be here for you._ ****

For _him_. ****

Ah, yes. ****

That’s why they were here. For him. ****

 **“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, setter-san.”** ****

Doctor Ishido shuts the door behind as he steps foot inside his office. ****

He was in a good mood today, Oikawa concludes; though the brunet had no concrete evidence to back that up of course. ****

Well except for the fact that he knew the elder exclusively referred to him by that silly nickname when he had at least four hours of sleep the night before their routine check-ups. If not, he was either addressed to as ‘young man’ or referred to as ‘your son’. ****

Not to mention, the physician's lab coat leaned more towards white than brown today; while his usual dark navy scrubs were replaced by a freshly ironed white button-up and black slacks. Oikawa might even go as far as saying the orthopedic surgeon had returned the smile as he walked in. ****

It was nice to see that between the two of them, the physician was in a better state than when they last saw each other. ****

He forces down a chuckle as he bids the elder a bow. “You and me both, doc.” ****

Over the course of three years, the teenager had grown accustomed to the doctor’s unruly ways. Some may even argue that he has warmed up to the old man. And to a certain extent, he did. ****

But that didn’t change the fact that not a single appointment passed by that he had not been at the edge of his seat as he counted the seconds before he could leave this room. ****

Today was no exception to that. ****

Sitting back onto his chair — still the same squeaky pleather one, he thinks aloud, “Our next scheduled check-up is not until early January…” ****

But when the doctor’s hard gaze meets his patient’s empty ones, the tone of his voice completely dials back to his staple monotonous tone. With the click of his tongue, he exhales. “I see… ****

Finally acknowledging the other people in the office, Doctor Ishido greets plainly, “Mom and dad, always nice to see you.” This time he adds, “Older sister, I presume?” as his gaze lands on a new face. To which the older Oikawa sibling only responds with a curt nod and a polite smile. ****

“Must be something serious if the whole family is here huh?” ****

No one said anything. ****

The surgeon’s dry sense of humour was also one of the handfuls of things the teenager had picked up on regarding his doctor over the years. He usually didn’t mind it at all, but right now he can’t seem to find the energy to indulge himself in the physician’s harmless joke. ****

Unclasping his wrinkled hands, the surgeon flips his patient’s file — the stack significantly thicker this time around. ****

And Oikawa doesn’t miss the appearance of a foreign gold band on the doctor’s left ring finger at all. ****

Clearly, a _lot_ has changed since their last check-up. ****

**“Let’s take a look at these scans shall we?”** ****

The brunet ignores his sister’s comments as he sucked the hospital’s nauseating air through his nostrils, smoothly switching the topic to something other than himself, “So who’s watching Takeru?” ****

“His dad’s mom.” Emeru answers easily with an amicable smile, not delving into the subject any further. ****

With the foot flat on the ground, she began to aimlessly tap the toe of her boot, therefore, filling in the void of the desolated orthopedic wing with the repetitive and tedious clicking and clacking of leather against tile. ****

The younger of the two sighs inwardly. ****

She was doing it _again —_ playing the role of the sensible older sister to her poor little brother who had hurt himself. ****

The brunet would rather deal with her usual overbearing and intrusive facade. You know, the one that pried answers out of him and didn’t beat around the bush than deal with _this_. ****

But shame on him if he lets himself fall for the same trick twice. ****

Eyes shut, Emeru rested her head against the grey wall with both her arms crossed; one hand holding her cup with her wrist swaying in tandem to the beat of her foot. ****

Oikawa estimates roughly three minutes of tolerance before he finally reached his limits. Two parts impatient, one part worried, the younger proposes, “Shouldn't we check up on her in there?” He turns to the direction of the restroom. ****

Foot suddenly unmoving, she cracks an eye open before taking a long sip, finishing the contents of the cup in one gulp. With an ominous gleam in her eye, she replies. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” ****

More volatile than usual, Oikawa replies with an irritated, “What could mom _possibly_ be doing inside the washroom for the past ten minutes?” ****

His sister only spares him a deadpan. Communicating the words, ‘Are you seriously asking me that because you don’t know?’, ever so seamlessly. ****

And the sentiment could not have proven to be more effective when the younger arrives at a definitive conclusion, not a moment after. “She’s crying in there, isn’t she?” ****

Legs uncrossing, Emeru affirms. “Bingo.” ****

Her gaze travels down to the window located right at the very end of the hall — the only source of natural light in the whole floor. She wistfully says, “Mom needs space.” Before returning her eyes upfront to the younger, “Both of them do.” ****

 _Oh_. ****

“This is hard on ‘em too, you know?” ****

 _He does._ ****

A momentary pause. ****

Playing with the empty coffee cup in her hand, she comments pointedly, “Although, _you_ seem just fine.”

_And there it was._

Wielding words of deflection right at the tip of his tongue, Oikawa begins with a wry chuckle, “You act like I’m dying.” Unimpressed, his sister lets out a scoff yet regardless, the younger pushes on with reckless abandon. “There are _worse_ things that could’ve happened—”

Her voice raises when she cuts him off, "I'm not talking about your knee." Pursing her lips into a tight line Emeru takes a deep breath. Voice now softer as if careful not to poke the bear, she inquires. “How'd the qualifiers go?"

Eyes immediately darkening into a glower, the former takes his time to rid himself of the subsequent emotions one sentence managed to summon before grimacing towards his sister. 

Feigning aloofness, he states. “We lost at the semi-finals... if that’s what you wanna know.”

Emeru doesn’t say anything for a while — keeping her gaze everywhere but on her brother across the hallway; and it all but prompted Oikawa to sneer. "What?” He spits out, words dripping in contempt and disdain. “No comments? Because I can take it."

The latter shudders as she shook her head. Muttering under her breath, she imparts. “I’m sorry.” 

Crossing his arms flat against his chest, the younger all but rolled his eyes. "Don't be. I'd rather you take a victory lap than throw me a pity party—"

“Not that. I just— I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there for you throughout all of this.” This time, he definitely let his eye-roll to the back of his head. She _did not_ just make this about herself. 

And here he thought he was the one full of himself.

A bitter scoff. “You had your own life to worry—"

“And yet I still should’ve tried!"

“After all the shit I’ve been through over the past seven years I’ve never once thought about how it affected you and I’m just sorry that I wasn’t a better sister. I should’ve been there—“ 

Slamming his shaky palms against the plastic seats beside him, Oikawa bellows, “Well everyone has regrets, alright?! But we just gotta suck it up and move on with our lives.“ 

The older Oikawa sibling takes a few moments to gather her thoughts. Defeated, she finally sighs. “I get it.”

“Oh, do you?” Oikawa’s words were as sharp as the glare he threw from across the hallway.

“It doesn’t have to be me, Tooru.” She tells him, subdued, hands fiddling with her empty cup before continuing, “...but you have to talk to someone eventually.” Her eyes meet his, pleading and demanding all at the same time.

He fakes a cough. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Emeru’s voice is slightly laced with humour when she reminisces, “I told myself the same thing before.”

Left hand still clutching the empty coffee cup, Emeru stifles a yawn before standing up from her seat. “It could be anyone.” This time, she doesn’t face him. “Our parents, Iwaizumi, whoever you feel comfortable with...” With a solemn look in her face, she ends it with a firm. “Just don’t bottle it in.” And with that, she began to walk.

The sound of her boot against the tile filled the walls of his eardrum once again. But Emeru turned to look over her shoulder one last time, expressive brown eyes that said “Just think about it.” before walking down the hall back to the direction of the vending machine.

And the brunet had to count the steps before his sister’s silhouette came around the corner and the clicking of her shoes was finally lost in the grand space of the hospital wing. 

_Twenty-three steps._

In the solitary silence Oikawa so longed for, he took one shaky breath as his gaze inadvertently lowered down to his right knee — now braced in the cold hard metal underneath the layer of fleece it was wrapped in.

He lets out a shallow sigh.

* * *

It’s been an hour since then.

Or two. 

He’s not quite sure at this point. 

Of course, he could always just turn on his phone to check; yet the prospect of coming across an unsolicited message from anyone he knew at the moment was enough for him to sacrifice his grasp of time even just for a matter of a few hours or so.

Oikawa left not a few moments after the former stood up to get her second cup of coffee; a spur of the moment decision. All he knew was that he had to get out of there. He had to get away. Because God only knows what would’ve happened if he stayed in that facility a second longer.

Looking back at it now, he really shouldn't have. Or at least he should've just waited by the entrance or even better, went ahead to join his father in the car. Yet he did neither. 

Instead, he fleed. In hindsight, he really shouldn't have underestimated his sister's ability to get into his head or even better, overestimate his admittedly impressionable self; because here he was, in the middle of nowhere in an attempt to think — not the smartest decision considering his predicament, _yes_ , but it seemed reasonable at the time. 

Besides, movies seemed to have a knack on portraying walking as something that can magically clear a person’s mind so he thought, why not put that theory to the test?

Initially, it had just been for the immediate purpose of escaping the suffocating confines of the hospital but now that he was kilometres away from the facility, his feet just can’t seem to stop.

Or rather, he can’t seem to find the will to stop.

So he let it be. 

And the funny thing was, Oikawa didn’t even like to walk. Jogging and running, he can get behind but the thought of leisurely walks repulsed him. Especially — _definitely,_ in the way he was doing so right now: ever so aimlessly and with no destination in mind. Because he never _just walked_. The moment he gets up on his feet and starts off his day in the morning, he knows from the top of his head the things he needed to do that day in order to gear towards the goals he had for himself. 

Oikawa Tooru stalked with a purpose and _always_ with a purpose. 

For as long as he could remember, there had always been a voice inside his head that continuously and constantly pushed him to strive and prepare for what was next. 

However, since that day that voice just slowly died down until the only thing he could hear were his own thoughts. Thoughts that left him so hollow, useless and just _so_ , so incredibly lost.

So he let his feet wander. For the first time in a really long time, Oikawa let himself go on his day with no goal set in mind nor a deadline hanging over his head. 

Of course, he had to stop numerous times over the course of his impulsive journey to rest his knee, but after that, he just walked even more. 

After all… walking was _all_ he could do and was permitted to do at the moment. 

**“Absolutely no extraneous activities from now on. Running, jumping, any repetitive motions that would apply unnecessary strain on your knee are completely off the table.”**

Doctor Ishido’s tone was monotonous as he listed the strict limitations for his patient. The brunet had expected as much; yet for some inexplicable reason, a part of him anticipated-- no, hoped for the surgeon’s consistent phlegmatic demeanour to somehow mend into something more genial. More comforting. 

_Sympathetic_. 

Although he supposes, the way his doctor says it won’t be enough to sugarcoat the very real threat and implication of his injury. 

Because this time, he didn’t need to ask.

 **“And I’m assuming you** **_know_ ** **what this implied?”**

And he _does_. He knew it all too well what it implied...

Well, it’s not like he had a reason to play volleyball nowadays. 

So losing his means to play had been inconsequential in the big picture. 

The universe was oddly poetic and really just fucking cruel that way.

Oikawa’s solemn footfalls came to a halt at yet again _another_ pedestrian crossing. If he had bothered _nor_ cared enough to keep tabs, this would’ve been the thirty-seventh one he’s crossed since he left the hospital. 

And at first glance, the block looked like any other he’s walked passed by on the way over. But as his eyes eventually adjusted to the modern-suburban landscape and lively commercial buildings scattered around the vicinity, the brunet arrived at a realization that this wasn’t just like _any other_ block.

In fact, he knows _exactly_ where he is. 

He has been _here_ before.

But why? 

Why would his feet bring him _here_ out of all places?

Why would _he_ subconsciously end up—

The loud rustling of the dead trees that lined the sidewalks and the uncontrollable howling of the wind as it meandered past the establishments was enough to stir the brunet out of his dwelling just in time for him to go. 

As if to be expected, a gust of the early November chill hit him in the face straight on as he crossed the street. And it was only then when he finally began to take notice of the spontaneous drops that gradually dotted the cement on the ground as he walked.

_You have gotta be kidding me._

Instinctively, he threw on the hood of his sweater and dug his already cold hands deeper inside his pockets as he sped up his pace — undoubtedly applying strain on his knee that he really shouldn’t be doing.

The thought of having the rain jacket he ever so willingly chose to forgo today had never sounded so good. Well, the thought of being at home right now and not stuck in the middle of the road as a rainstorm threatened to transpire wouldn’t be that bad either.

Maybe if he had bothered enough to check the weather forecast…

Hell, if he had only dared to lift his head up from the ground at least once in the past ten minutes, then he would’ve definitely taken notice of the bleak overcast transpiring.

As he made it to the other side, the sky began to grumble followed shortly after by a strike of lightning that flashed across the gray blanket that covered Sendai. 

His lips contort to a grimace as the drops of rain hit the material of his hoodie. 

If he was any more full of himself than he already was, Oikawa would’ve allowed himself to believe that the sudden change of weather was somehow related to him — that as if his day could not have gotten any worse, the sky had to mock him too.

But that thought was just as silly as it was conceited. 

Pathetic fallacies _only_ occurred in movies. 

And his life was no movie — it can't get any farther from it actually. This was basic science, even his seven-year-old nephew could understand. This wasn’t his emotions dictating or affecting the change in weather. 

_Far from it._

This was just bad luck.

**“Your son is very lucky.”**

He peered up from his lap and allowed his gaze to harden on the physician. But Doctor Ishiido remained unfazed as he held the x-ray scans towards the light as if to affirm his findings.

From the corner of his eye, Oikawa takes notice of his mother’s white knuckles as she keeps a tight grip on her handbag — something she had been doing since they sat down thirty minutes ago.

To her left, his father remained unmoving yet the brunet doesn’t miss the frown lines that had become more prominent across his face the longer they stayed inside the room. 

And his sister leaned against the wall on his right had stopped obnoxiously smacking her gum the moment the physician began talking as if her jaw had become slack with the palpable restlessness that took over the room.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, the physician goes on to say. “You see this area just below your knee cap...” He points somewhere on the scan — something Oikawa should be paying attention to but just can’t seem to find the will to indulge himself in. “...this tendon right here could’ve easily ruptured considering how fragile it has become over the course of three years.”

Besides the air vents letting in the heat, Doctor Ishido’s office was dead silent. Leaving the brunet no choice but to listen to the grim voice of his doctor.

Fixing the prescription glasses on the bridge of his nose, the old man clears his throat once again.

_Seems like no one was immune to uncomfortable silence. Not even the impassive surgeon._

Doctor Ishido’s impassive gaze met his and a shiver of fear shot through the brunet’s spine. “However, there is still a lot of swelling. Significantly _way more_ than the last time I saw you.” He takes one last look at the scans before putting them down on his desk. 

Nonetheless, he lets out a sigh followed by another unrelenting side-eye aimed at the brunet who wordlessly sat across the table. With a drawl, he concludes. “But since you're not in a wheelchair nor wearing crutches right now… I’m assuming you can still walk.” 

_Unfortunately_. 

“Tell me one thing…” He trails off. Meeting his patient’s eye, he inquired. “Was disobeying the doctor's orders worth it, _Tooru-kun_?”

The setter’s eyes immediately widened.

He continues with a deadpan, “Was the pain worth it?”

A sardonic pause.

“Because this just didn’t happen in one day.” The shuffling of papers was heard. “The pain must’ve been hell for you for the past months… Trouble doing regular activities? Kept you up at night?” Oikawa can’t find his voice to respond and refute his words.

“Sounds familiar?” The brunet swallows dryly.

Doctor Ishido exhales, tone now less aggressive but with hints of something worse. _Disappointment_. “You know… if you had landed on your knee in any other way, there’s no telling the damage you would’ve sustained.” 

_He knows._

“Or if it would’ve been a place that you could get back from…”

_He knows that._

_He’s known that from the very first time he entered this office._

**_“So consider yourself very very lucky.”_ ** **_  
_**

_Truly, some luck he has._

Was it still his luck that he just spent the last three years of his life working tooth and nail only to not even get past the qualifiers?

Was it still his luck that his fear of Kageyama Tobio beating him came true right before his eyes hence further solidifying the fact that no amount of hard work he does can ever top sheer genius?

Was it still his luck that he was the very reason for their loss just because he missed receiving that spike by the hair, letting not only his teammates down but also himself?

Hell, was it still his luck that even when he placed his own knee on the line, it _still_ wasn’t enough for them to win?

The pitter-pattering of the rain against the roofs battled with the thoughts that flooded his mind all at the same time. And it didn’t take long before the raindrops quickly began turning into sprinkles which soon turned into heavy beads of rain that coated the streets with a thin layer of precipitation.

_Oh, just how fucking lucky he is._

Yet at this point, he’s not even remotely surprised. In fact, he should’ve expected this.

Because it’s always been that way for as long as he could remember. 

Almost went to Nationals the first time.

Almost went to Nationals the second time.

Almost received that spike.

Almost. Almost. _**ALMOST**_.

It’s always fucking almost. 

And of course, you can’t forget the new addition to the list: Almost broke his knee. Almost spent the next few months of his life recovering from surgery and the next few years after that doing therapy.

But no.

And the funny thing was, he almost wished that he did break it. Because maybe that way he’d have an excuse. An excuse to throw whatever pity party he has for himself. An easy way out. 

Yet again the world said no.

Because even the world can’t grant Oikawa Tooru a dramatic downfall.

No sad headline of an ‘Up and coming Miyagi setter who had suffered an injury after a valiant effort at the Spring Interhigh Qualifiers’. Nothing like that at all. Nothing but the pain of his own almost busted knee and the humiliation of almost coming close to his dreams. 

_That_ , and a shit ton of time — time to overthink and reevaluate everything he has done for the past four months. For the past six years. For the past decade.

And all of them filled with what if’s and if only’s. 

_What if_ he hadn’t pushed himself that hard?

 _If only_ he hadn’t pushed himself harder.

 _What if_ he did receive that spike.

 _If only_ he received that spike.

The world has to hand it to him. 

It was quite a feat to always come that close to everything you’ve wanted in life only to fall short over and over again. 

Because it’s always an almost with him. 

But almost is simply never enough. Not for himself and surely not for the world.

His footsteps came to an abrupt halt when he catches sight of the familiar house. 

He was _here_.

Hurriedly, he takes shelter underneath the porch of the residence. Swallowing thickly, he pressed the doorbell. 

And for the first time in his life, Oikawa patiently waited for someone to answer.

It was a Sunday. She should be at home. But how would he know? Maybe her schedule changed. He hasn’t— they haven’t talked in months. And even if she was here, what makes him think that she’ll just— the sky above him grumbled even louder, releasing heavy rainfall as it has never done before.

Completely adrift, the brunet doesn’t know how long he stood there for. All he knew was that he already lost feeling in his fingers and that his lips have been drastically quivering from the rapid drop in the temperature.

Yet it was the frigid void within him that had been the one that presented the coldest out of all.

Oikawa didn’t need to lash out or throw objects to soothe his anger.

_He already did and it did nothing._

He didn’t need to cry to release his frustrations.

_He couldn’t anymore even if he wanted to._

He didn’t need to talk to anyone like his sister thinks he does. 

_He didn’t need **ANY** of that. _

What he needs is _one second_. One second to breathe and stop thinking, feeling, hurting, _**EVERYTHING**_.

He just needed _one day_ where he could pretend everything was alright. Just _one thing_ to go right. 

_**ANYTHING. ANYONE—** _

If not for the gust of warm air that greeted his face, he wouldn't have noticed that the red door in front of him had long been gone and behind it, revealed a face. It only took a few seconds for the heat of the radiators inside to reach his whole body, therefore, instant relief from the early winter chill that enveloped him for the past ten minutes. 

But as he raised his head to meet eyes, Oikawa felt a different kind of warmth.

Like coming home after a long day of work. Or like crawling under your blanket during a rainy day. 

“Tooru.”

He swallows thickly before saying,

“Kirari.”

It was the warmth of familiarity.

And it might've just been what he needed all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter planned out for a while now and I’m really glad that I finally got to upload it; although initially, I wanted to break his knee — like full-on cast and all but the plot simply didn’t call for it.
> 
> Disclaimer: Omg I literally just winged the diagnosis and prognosis stuff with bare minimum research — gotta use those 16 seasons of grey’s anatomy knowledge for something amirite? (shoutout to my fav ortho surgeon Ms. Callie Torres). So if it don't add up, let's just ignore it shall we? 🤩
> 
> Lemme end this note with:  
> F’s in the chat for our mans Oikawa pls. He just can’t catch a break. (Or did he?😏)


End file.
